


Being Harry Potter

by Kirinin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (but no spoilers until they appear in the story!), Background Poly, Bodyswap, Bromance, Complete, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Drama, Dumbledore's Army, F/M, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Horcruxes, Identity, Identity Issues, Identity Reveal, In the most literal possible way, M/M, Man against self, Marginalized groups, Multi, No character bashing, POV Draco Malfoy, Pairings not the main thing, Politics, Polyamory, Rare Pairings, Souls, Werewolf Politics, Why on earth is that an established tag?!, Zig-Zag a trope, but still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-06-17 13:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 110,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15462141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirinin/pseuds/Kirinin
Summary: Draco Malfoy awakens in Gryffindor Tower at the start of his sixth year with no memory of how he arrived.Can Draco use Harry's lingering impressions of the world to guide him?  Can he navigate the politics of being the Boy Who Lived?  And how long before he tips off Ron or Hermione?A bodyswap subversion and bromance, this story features a Ron Weasley convinced they are mates, a Hermione keen on the Dark Arts, a surprisingly friendly Blaise Zabini, and a Luna Lovegood who's just mad enough to find this all perfectly ordinary.





	1. Chapter 1

Later, Draco Malfoy would reflect on how strange it was he didn’t notice anything at first. 

Even after he’d registered he was not in his bed with its 1200-thread-count sheets, his contoured head pillow and his magically-heated blanket, it scarcely raised any sort of alarm in his sleep-addled mind.  It would not be the first time he’d drifted off in the largest, most intimidating chair in the Slytherin Common Room, after all; and at home, he had the unseemly habit of drifting off against any flat surface where his parents could not find or rouse him.  As it was early September, he was still in that limbo of not quite knowing whether he ought to be at home or at school.

So when he opened his eyes to discover the bottom slats of an unfamiliar bed above him – in _bunks_ – he only blinked a moment, thoughts skimming along like a stone skipping across water, idly wondering how he’d come to be there.

When no memory surfaced, he frowned and sat up, looking around.

He was in a proper bed: the lower level of a bunk bed, clearly, and not in the Slytherin dormitory.  There were no bunkbeds there, and the bed-hangings were maroon; but moreover, something in Draco’s hindbrain told him that he was not in the dungeons, but rather high up.  The bedcurtains were drawn, and the whole place felt snug and dark and secret, so Draco breathed through what might otherwise have been panic and thought very, very hard.

There were a few possibilities.

The chief one was that someone had placed him in the Gryffindor dormitories on a lark.  If that were the case, his primary suspect was Theodore Nott, who’d been giving him the evil eye with increasing frequency over the past few weeks, ever since that (perhaps inadvisable) comment on the ancestry of his sister.

The second possibility was that he had made his way here under his own power, but couldn’t recall it for reasons that were also – probably – related to Theodore Nott and his penchant for dramatics.

Those were the top two contenders, but there was a swirl of less likely possibilities, none of which were so benign or straightforward.  He hesitated to confront this swirling eddy of potential disaster until he’d at least had his morning coffee, so he shoved aside the wildest of the wild speculation through sheer force of will, along with the curtains.

Gryffindor colours met his eye, as he’d half-suspected they would.  The bedhangings proved to be a deep red velvet, though the soft weave was only seen as such from the outside.  There were standing wardrobes with gryphons carved into their doors, and gryphon’s-head handles.  Tall, narrow windows had been built in the Tower at eye level to flood the room with early morning light.  Trunks were located at the end of each bed, in various states of (dis)repair –- he could spot what must be Weasley’s at a glance, covered as it was in dings and mars (and stickers and various peoples’ handwriting, part of Draco’s mind added –- the part that was inclined to be honest with itself -– which made it look rather homey and inviting).  There were a few tiny objects that were too distant to make out, placed on side tables; and what was clearly Longbottom’s unfinished work by an inkpot he’d forgotten to cap.  There was a half-finished drawing that was quite good, really, though Draco hadn’t the faintest idea which of the boys in his year drew.

He might have liked to say he took it all in instantly, keenly, but he did not.  He rubbed at his eyes ineffectually and paced around a bit, with no sense of urgency.  The rooms were still quiet; judging from the low sun on the horizon, it was possible he’d woken earlier than anyone else.  Perhaps he could find a clue as to why he’d been pranked or by whom if he poked around awhile.

(He had not yet caught on.)

Potter’s glasses were sitting by the bedside table, and he lifted them in both hands feeling strange, indeed.  They were stupid, of course, and unbecoming; a million times he’d thought to steal them or stomp them or – or get a better look at them, up close.  But he never had.

He turned them over in his hands, examining them from all angles.  There was a scratch, there; a dent, here.  They’d seen better days.  Malfoy knew that Potter had money; his father had told him as much.  So the glasses had to be some kind of _statement_ , which was ridiculous, and just like Potter.  He wasn’t sure what that statement would be, but it would say something about being one of the Common Men, which Draco thought was ridiculous.  Potter was the Chosen One, old money, and had already made a name for himself as some sort of heroic saviour – he was not one of the common people, so it came off a bit cheap.

“Saint Potter,” he muttered, and cleared his throat.

_I ought to go._

Go?  He ought to _flee_.  If all the Gryffindors awoke and caught him here – or if Weasley woke and raised the alarm – he’d be toast.  Sure, they’d all get detentions until the end of time, but it wasn’t worth the thrashing he’d get, first.  And he’d have a hard time explaining to McGonagall or Snape what he was doing, here, _since he had no idea, himself_.

But he wasn’t running.  He was turning Potter’s spectacles over and over in his hands, until they were oriented the right way.

And then he was putting them on his face.

The Gryffindor boys’ dorm resolved into startlingly sharp lines and bright colour, and Draco blinked and blinked, but each time it was the same.

Those things weren’t far away, they’d been blurry.

He’d rubbed the sleep out of his eyes just fine; he just hadn’t been able to see.

Reflexively, he removed the glasses to stare at them; the world went blurry again.  Without thinking, he reached down to rub the dirt and dust off the lenses using the edge of his pyjama top.

_I’m not wearing my clothing._

He was wearing dark pyjamas with tiny gold snitches embroidered on them, suitable for a _child_ for Merlin’s sake.

In the part of Draco’s mind that was inclined to be honest with itself, Draco knew he could be called many things: small-minded.  Petty.  A little bigoted, maybe, just a tad.

But stupid wasn’t one of them.

Swallowing, he perched the spectacles again on his nose and raised his hands to examine them.  Even in the low light, it was clear they were dusted with fine, dark hair.  So when Weasley pulled his own curtain back and said, “g’mrng, Harry,” dragging both hands down his face, Draco offered up his best go at a real smile and replied,

“Hullo, Ron.”

 

* * *

 

He followed the others, watching their routine without looking like he was watching at all.  He followed Weasley a half-step behind, to the sink, to the showers.

He wasn’t stupid enough to follow his usual hair routine.  He made the calculated (painful, _painful_ ) decision to do the exact opposite of what Potter should do for his hair type.  He barely looked in the mirror, because he thought Potter wouldn’t, and because part of him quailed to think of staring into the mirror and watching Potter stare back.

Weasley kept up a stream of running commentary, about classes, about Granger, about how he’d slept.  Draco let it wash over him like the scalding hot water of his shower, making appropriate noises when he felt it was warranted and otherwise shutting up.

He _could_ shut up.  He could close his mouth and keep it closed.  Even if Weasley _had_ started going on and on about the Wimbourne Wasps and their chances, and Draco had a lot of feelings on the subject.

The world had narrowed to a razor-thin focus, even with Ronald Weasley a babbling brook of bullshit at his right hand. 

There were very few people he knew with the power to do something of this nature, and none of them were students.  That meant he had a very, very powerful enemy.

Or a powerful _friend_?  Someone who believed that this foray into Potter’s life would give Draco insights and advantages in the coming War? 

That left out entirely the fact that there were witches and wizards who were out for _Potter’s_ blood – people who might view Draco’s involvement as incidental, or even poetic.  It wasn’t exactly a secret that he and Potter were at each other’s throats, so it might be that there was someone sitting on the sidelines, cackling madly as they envisioned how he might destroy Potter’s marks, his friendships, and tarnish his halo in the eyes of the little people. 

Draco’s gaze darted nervously over to Weasley, who was still ( _seriously?_ ) babbling.  The temptation to shut him up was enormous.

But a strange foreboding had overtaken Draco Malfoy.  He felt – sharply, keenly, with an almost preternatural understanding – that he could not make a play until he better understood the game.  And shouting, “shut up, Weasel!” at the top of his voice was not exactly in with keeping a low profile.

 _Well, then,_ Draco thought.  Understanding the nature of the game was his top priority, behind the obvious:

Find Draco Malfoy, of course.  With his fresh Mark and his important, important task.

Weasley was waxing poetic on the potential for morning pancakes as they descended the stair from the seventh floor – “you know, Harry, with the boysenberry syrup” – when Draco finally managed to interrupt.

“Maybe, Ron, but listen,” he said, barely stumbling over the Weasel’s first name, “I’ve got to go run an errand.”

“But… breakfast,” Weasley protested.  “It’s the most important meal of the day!”

Draco rolled his eyes – he couldn’t help it – but then the Weasel’s hand was pressing into his upper arm.

“Look at me, Harry.”

Draco did, gaze darting up – glasses framing everything he saw, which was so weird, their hazed edges just at the corners of his vision – and met Weasley’s dark blue eyes.  And a double-strangeness hit Draco – because Weasley looked _worried_ – and obviously he’d never looked at Draco Malfoy like that, but – stranger – that level of keen understanding was something he’d _never_ seen on Weasley’s face before, pointed at _anybody_.

It brought him up so short that he only stared, and Weasley took this as leave to carry on.

“At least tell me what’s wrong, first.”

It was like looking at a total stranger, Draco reflected, gaze scanning Weasley’s features.  He had the surreal privilege of watching Weasley’s face transform back into its usual placid lines when a Gryffindor passed the two of them on the stair – “all right, Dean?” – before transferring back to Harry Potter’s face and back to its strangely intense concern.

 _This isn’t my problem_.  “Later, Ron, I promise,” Draco said, and was taken aback by how earnest this voice sounded when it made promises to Ronald Weasley. 

He whirled and sprinted off, heading for the Slytherin dormitories, ignoring the prickling at the back of his neck that told him Weasley was still standing on the stair, and staring after him.

 

* * *

 

A few of the staircases tried to shake him off, as though they sensed he didn’t belong so deep in the bowels of Hogwarts Castle, but it was early enough that he encountered few Slytherins in the hallways.  Those who he did encounter eyed him warily but made no comment, which was just as well.

Draco’s skin was prickling up from his arms by the time he’d reached the entry to Slytherin.  It had been easy enough to pretend at being Potter when surrounded by Gryffindors in an unfamiliar location, but being in the dungeons made it increasingly challenging to remember how he looked, now. 

“ _Mister Potter_.”

Draco froze.

“Turn around.”

He did.

Professor Snape was striding towards him, arms tucked into voluminous sleeves, wearing his most unimpressed look, and that was truly saying something.  “What are you doing here?”

Draco’s mother was fond of saying, “in a pinch, the truth will do.”

“I’m looking for Malfoy,” he said.

Snape’s brows raised.  “Why?”

“I think he cursed me.”

“Well,” said Snape.  He eyed Draco, up and down.  “I see nothing the matter, Mister Potter.”

Draco shrugged.  “It’s of a personal nature, sir.”

Snape sneered.  “Perhaps you won’t antagonize Mister Malfoy so much in the future,” he suggested.  “Go to the Hospital Wing, Potter, unless you wish your confrontation to be public, though perhaps that’s what you’d like best… a chance to put on a show for all your little fans?”

“Public, sir?  Why public?”

“Because Mister Malfoy left for the Great Hall some time ago,” Snape supplied.

Draco felt his eyes widen; he adjusted his glasses as they slid down his face when his expression changed – the blasted things.  He darted away, then, ignoring Snape who shouted more points off of Gryffindor until he was out of earshot.

 

* * *

 

Draco tumbled into the Great Hall just as it was beginning to fill in earnest and, catching sight of _his own face_ across the Hall, wasted no time in striding up to the Slytherin table.

“Malfoy,” he said in his best, deadpan-Potter-hero voice, “we need to talk.”

Through a hazy, nightmarish wash, he watched as his own face turned from talking to Crabbe and looked up at him, watched his own features register surprise and then something akin to mischief.

If Potter had orchestrated this, somehow, Draco would _end him_.  He maintained a student couldn’t have carried this out… but Potter had powerful friends.  Perhaps he’d convinced one to go along with this farce, pretending it was all for the War.

“Sure, Potter,” Draco’s voice said out of Draco’s mouth.  He elbowed his fellows, standing.  “This ought to be good.”

“Come _on_ ,” Draco growled, and dragged his counterpart away into the hall; and then, when he saw that there were still students milling about, pulled him into an alcove.

“Well?” said Potter, crossing his arms over his chest.

 _Oh_.  It hadn’t occurred to him – and maybe it should have? – that if Potter hadn’t orchestrated all this – he was (perhaps, perhaps) clever enough to arrive at all the same conclusions Draco had.  (He’d survived this long!) 

Given Potter’s heroic nature and experience with, well… _derring-do_ … it was possible he wouldn’t bring it up, first – in case Draco himself were to blame.  But Draco was a bit too Slytherin in nature to come right out with it.

_Merlin, we could be here awhile._

“When you woke up this morning,” said Draco.  “Were you where you expected to be?”

Potter blinked at him.  “Er,” he said.

“Did you notice anything _unusual_?” Draco pressed.  “Like any spells had been cast on you, or – or things were different?”

Potter let out a long, low breath.  “Glad you noticed it, too.”

“Merlin,” Draco huffed, raking his (now-unruly) hair back off his forehead.  “Okay.  So how are we going to fix it?”

“How would you suggest going about _fixing_ something like this?” Potter demanded, raising his eyebrows in a way that made him look like no one more than Draco Malfoy in his own natural body. 

“Easy, Potter.  Obviously, our first goal is to figure out who switched us.”

Potter’s eyes had gone wide, and the corner of his lip kept twitching.  “How do we do that?”

“I don’t know,” Draco said, wringing his hands.  “Look, it can’t be a student, right?  And it’s got to be someone who hates you, or hates me, or who hates the both of us – and who’s got this kind of power.”  Draco frowned.  “Merlin knows you’ve angered enough people with your do-gooder act –”

“Okay,” Potter said, gesturing to him, “the eyebrow thing isn’t bad.  But the accent is more of a disaster than your hair.  If you’re going to sell that you think you’re _me_ , you’re going to have to _try_ a little harder.”

“I,” said Draco.  “What?”

“Here, here, I’ll bet I can do _you_ ,” Potter said with a very familiar smirk.  “Watch this: _oh, I’m Harry Potter – no one loves me in the whole wide world but for my legion of adoring fans…!  Woe is…_ ”  His brows lifted in a parody of injured innocence.  “No?  Over the top?”

Draco stood, thunderstruck: because suppose Potter had done it, himself… and _didn’t_ mean for it to be a short-lived prank.  Putting himself in Potter’s shoes – _HA!_ – who wouldn’t take the opportunity to get out from under the gaze of a powerful wizard such as the Dark Lord, if they had the chance?  The man had sworn to kill Harry Potter, and now Potter was free from those threats, wealthy, devilishly handsome, and _on the right side._   With the bonus of two living parents.

Suppose this was permanent?  Draco would die, murdered by the Dark Lord; and just so long as Potter swore he was Draco Malfoy, no one’d be the wiser.

It was the sort of plan Draco Malfoy might’ve come up with, himself.

It was diabolical. 

Now Potter was staring at him.  “Merlin’s sky and stars, Potter, are you actually serious?”  Draco watched his own mannerism, in perfect replicate: his own body clasping his own hand over his own heart in exaggerated amazement.  “Call St Mungo’s!” he shouted, down the hall.  “I think Potter’s come over in some kind of fit!  _Again._ ”

“Shut up,” Draco hissed, not taking his eyes off the liar before him.  “I’ll murder you where you stand.  I’d say I took down a Death Eater in training and they’d clap me on the back.  That takes care of about half my problem, as I see it.”

“That’s a better impression anyway,” Potter mused.  “If you work hard, someday someone might even know who you’re trying to imitate.”  His contemplative expression dissolved to hardness.  “Here’s what you’ve never understood, Potter,” he said, pointing his finger and tapping Draco on the chest with each word.  “You.  Can’t.  _Touch_ me.”  He smiled, then, slow and mean.  “You think you’ve got friends everywhere?  So have I.  In the Ministry, at the school, in certain… important organizations poised to shape our future.”

Draco blanched.

“But never mind all that – this is _golden_ ,” Potter crowed.  “You think ‘Potter stinks’ was bad?  When Skeeter hears about how _unstable_ you’ve become under the _pressure_ …”

“Shut it,” came a new voice, and suddenly Ronald Weasley was insinuating himself between them.

“Weasel,” said Potter, with a curl of his lip.  “I saw your sister is still wearing last year’s robes.  Riding up a little high, now, aren’t they?”

And something in Draco pressed under the weight of his doubt, like the give of a rotting floorboard before it splinters beneath one’s feet.

“C’mon Harry,” Ron was saying, dragging him again by the arm, and this time, Draco went, head spinning.

 

* * *

 

“You okay?”

Draco looked up to find they were in front of the entry to Gryffindor Tower.  He shook his head, wordless, skin crawling.

“What did he say?  Normally he can’t get a rise no matter how hard he goes at you.”

Draco looked up again at Ron’s earnest face.  He still didn’t know who had cursed him for sure.  Certainly Potter was now his number one suspect, but it was at least a possibility that he was merely taking advantage of the situation and hadn’t been the original caster.  And until Draco knew more, it didn’t make sense to let anybody in on his predicament.

Which made it all the stranger when he felt the urge to pronounce himself Draco Malfoy, and had to press his tongue to the flat of his front teeth to stop from blurting it aloud.

Come to think, he’d felt strange all day.  He hadn’t left Gryffindor Tower when he ought to have darted away at first light; the temptation to even snap at Ronald Weasley had evaporated.  And now he had the inexplicable, un-Slytherin urge to confess all. 

The only conclusion was that something in Potter’s habits, or perhaps in his way of thinking, had been left behind: a residual impression, a palimpsest of Potter.

Which might explain the easy way Potter had arched his brow and insulted Weasley, too.  Perhaps he felt he _had_ to.

_Huh._

“Harry,” said Ron.

Draco looked up.  “Just distracted, I guess.”

Weasley’s features went through a few contortions, as though he wasn’t sure how to reply to this blatant falsehood.  After a moment, the easy façade he’d presented to Dean returned; and Draco realized he meant to pretend nothing was the matter, even though it was quite clear he knew something was wrong.

 _This isn’t going to work_ , Draco thought, disguising his panic by ducking his head.  _He’ll catch on, and sooner rather than later._

“Well, we’ve time for a full game of chess before facing Snape in Defense,” Ron said.  “Or Gobstones.”

Perhaps the tide of weariness belonged to him; perhaps it was Potter’s.  All he knew was that he would rather do anything besides pretend to struggle with chess so it would be a fair match, when his father had hired a bloody tutor to teach him the game.

“Sure,” he said, and Weasley’s smile twisted, as though he saw Draco’s reluctance and was going along anyway, to keep Potter busy.

Why did Weasley think Precious Potter was so in need of a distraction?  Had the endless adulation grown monotonous?

So Draco was rather surprised when it turned out that Weasley beat him once, then twice.  He finally paid careful attention the third time and managed to anticipate a few of Weasleys’ trickier plays and steal a win.  “Ha!  Take that, Weasley,” Draco crowed, then paled.

“Sure, ‘Potter’,” Ron was saying, though, and giving him such a fond look that Draco’s dizzying triumph and abortive panic both dropped away completely to make room for sheer bafflement. 

Then, Ron reached out and ruffled Potter’s hair.

Draco batted his hands away, but Weasley only looked at him with a softness utterly foreign to Draco’s experience, and moved to grab his school things.  In fact, so much of what Weasley had done and said that morning was outside of Draco’s experience, to the point that he wondered if Weasley hadn’t been bodyswapped as well.

And Draco felt strange – of _course_ he felt strange, but – this was different. 

Intellectually, he knew he loathed Weasley.  Weasley was beneath him, lower than a House Elf – lower than a bug.  Worse than a Mudblood, because at least Mudbloods had a good excuse for not knowing why they didn’t belong: blood traitors should know better.  And there was a history between them, even if none of that had been true – sidelong looks and outright insults since they were old enough to toddle.

But something was different, now.  Draco looked up at Weasley and his instant, knee-jerk reaction wasn’t disgust.  There was even something indisputably settling about having the other boy close by.  It gave Draco the oddest feeling – as though he’d been Imperiused or Confunded – only not _quite…_ it was feeling something he ought not to feel… _knowing_ he ought not to feel it.

It was strange, this palimpsest of Potter but, Draco thought, Slytherin instincts kicking in, it was also _convenient_.

Gryffindors were ruled by their emotions – and if he focused on these little nudges, let them guide his behaviour…

No one would ever guess he wasn’t Harry Potter.

Ron eyed him oddly.  “Almost time for Defense.  Reckon we should start down, now…”  He waved to a few of the other Gryffindors who had first session free on Mondays, and then stepped outside the portrait and into the hallway, Draco close on his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! So, as you can see with the chapter counter, this story is already complete. I will be updating frequently, as I tend to write the full story, editing as I go, and then do a final series of edits before I post each chapter.
> 
> I do apologize for those waiting for more Geas, but if you like that, I believe you will like this one as well. The muses aren't always kind... or straightforward!


	2. Chapter 2

Narcissa Black-Malfoy had done a poor job of hiding her horror when she’d learned of her Draco’s fate.  She wept and wailed and begged Lucius to reconsider.  She’d taken Calming Draughts and had to be seen by a Healer without once referencing what troubled her.  In short, she’d played every card in a pureblooded witch’s hand; but in the end it wasn’t Lucius-dear’s decision, and therefore she could only worry and wear on him more – to little effect.

So, she put away her womanly wiles and dusted off an older set. 

Narcissa locked herself in her study and considered things from the Dark Lord’s point of view.

Everyone by then knew of the prophecy that claimed Potter had to die at the Dark Lord’s hand.  Potter was a nuisance in any case.  Albus Dumbledore had to die too, of course.

If she could accomplish the both of these things without putting her Draco in danger, well.  Obviously that was all for the best.

She pored over her Darkest of Dark Arts books – or rather, Lucius’s – she’d never had much of a head for (or a fondness for) removing people’s entrails while they were alive, or turning them inside out – how ostentatious, when a simple dagger to the heart or a touch of poison would do? – and she found a solution to everyone’s problems that was deliciously simple and yet complex enough for the boys to enjoy.

She set up a private meeting with the Dark Lord and explained everything.  (It was surprising and a bit worrying how easy that was; he surely needed a secretary.)

“Are you sure, Narcissa?” he inquired.  “That you can carry it out, I mean.”

She assured him that she could – so long as he were willing to help a little.  She emphasized her womanly weakness and batted her eyes.  It didn’t surprise her that he was as susceptible as any man, or at least – willing to feign that he was.

“You may make up for your husband’s inadequacies nicely, if that is so,” he replied.  “I’ve found Black women to be very clever and competent,” he mused.

She waited with bated breath.

“Very well,” he said, steepling his hands.  “Bring Harry Potter and your son to me… and we shall see.”

 

* * *

 

 

The back of Draco’s neck prickled as he entered the classroom, but he needn’t have worried about where to sit or how to behave, because Weasley practically herded him to the centre of the room, where Granger was already seated on his right side and Weasley joined him at his left.  Even though they were two of the last people there, those spots had been left empty. 

Draco knew a sign of fealty when he saw one: everyone in this classroom was one of Potter’s, or close enough, and they made space for him without thinking.

Draco’s own body was seated in the far corner of the room, looking bored, examining his nails.  Draco quickly turned to face front before his features registered – whatever they might be registering – at the sight of himself, trying to look like he wasn’t paying attention to Harry Potter.  _Examining your nails, what are we, in a novel?_   He scoffed aloud.

“All right, Harry?” said Granger to his right, and Draco tried hard not to curse aloud.

Damn Harry Potter and his thrice-cursed, observant pair of sycophants.

“He’s having an off day,” said Ron under his breath, and Draco’s head whipped to him so swiftly that he heard and felt it crack.  Ron shrugged, and all Draco could do was glare, having no idea what Potter’s version of a bad day _meant_.

But it got Granger off his back with an instantaneousness that was profoundly relieving.  “Do your best, Harry; Snape isn’t likely to be sympathetic.”

“Wow, thanks, Granger,” Draco said.  “Who’d have guessed?”

“He’s extra twitchy,” Ron added, and when Draco turned to glare, Ron put on his best gormless face and shrugged.

 _You Slytherin_ , Draco thought – his highest compliment.

But maybe it was the way that Ron grinned and rolled his eyes, after, that coloured his positive impression.

A bit.

“Textbooks to page eleven,” came a sharp crack of a voice from the front of the room.  “Nonverbals from that page for twenty.”

_Eloquent as always, Professor._

“We shall see if any of you have mastered the art of _SILENT_ casting and repelling… _yet_.”

Why did everything Professor Snape said sound _ominous_ today?  He’d noted it in the dungeons, too, with the small part of his brain that wasn’t quietly panicking at the time.

Weasley nudged him and they retreated to a corner of the room.  To his surprise, Weasley was being diligent, skimming the curses in the book.  “Tripping Jinx, yeah?” he said, and Draco nodded.  He’d mastered wordless magic ages ago at his father’s direction.  He raised his wand and –

A featureless _burst_ of magic flew from his wand hand up his arm, suffusing his entire body with strength.

_Whoa._

The whole classroom looked sharper and cleaner, as though he’d put on a second pair of spectacles; the world narrowed to Ron Weasley across from him, his features pressed into comical concentration, turning practically blue in the face as he tried to force the magic out without the accompanying words.  At the same time, the wand calmed and centred him, reminding him that Weasley before him was not truly an enemy.

Draco felt sharp and calm and deadly in a way he never had, before; and when Weasley finally succeeded, his answering wordless _Protego_ was so perfect that Draco gasped a bit.  It came out with just the right force, dissipating Weasley’s jinx before it had fully formed.

Draco huffed a disbelieving laugh and stared blankly at the wand in his hand, jolting forward when Weasley clapped him on the back.

“Well done, mate,” Weasley said.  “That’s a lot more control than your usual, right?”

“Yeah, I…” said Draco raking his free hand through his now-wild hair.  “…Yeah.”

“Well done, Harry,” said someone at his elbow.

“Thanks, Seamus,” he said, still staring at the wand.  He looked up at Ron.  “Something’s… different.”

“I’ll say,” said Weasley, rocking back on his heels.

“ _Mister_ Potter, _Mister_ Weasley,” said Snape, suddenly standing in front of them, his arms crossed over his chest.

Draco startled.

“Mister Potter, do you feel that you are above what is being taught in this class?  No?  _Then.  Practice._ ”

Draco felt irritated, of course – a stab and twist at his gut – then a nudge forward, like he was offstage and someone was intent on shoving him into the spotlight.

_I hate you – you hurt me – I’ll show you!_

_Merlin, Potter,_ he thought, shaking his head. _You are a piece of work._

But he supposed that was where “there’s no need to call me ‘sir’, Professor,” had come from.  Draco felt half-inclined to come up with something clever to growl, something that would make everyone laugh and make Snape feel small.

“Yes, sir,” he said instead, through clenched teeth.  He kept a close watch on Weasley and Granger, but his response must’ve qualified as vaguely characteristic, because Granger sighed and Weasley thumped him on the back and retreated.

“Okay,” Ron said.  “Again.”

 

* * *

 

Another boy in Draco Malfoy’s position might have found being Harry Potter a reprieve from the dreadful responsibility with which he’d been honoured (threatened) over the summer.  Another boy might have thought of his new position as a place of retreat or escape.  But Draco was Slytherin enough to realize: this new body didn’t abrogate Draco’s responsibilities.  It multiplied them.

It didn’t change that the Dark Lord had threatened to torture his mother and execute his father if he couldn’t kill Albus Dumbledore and smuggle the Death Eaters into Hogwarts.

It had no bearing on the fact that he had no experience with magical transportational devices and therefore, not the first idea of how to repair a Vanishing Cabinet.

It didn’t change that he’d been painted into a corner; it only altered the colour on the brush.

So of course, after surviving Defense (nonverbals, simple – his father had hired a tutor when he was twelve) and Potions (where in Merlin’s name Potter had stolen that incredibly _useful_ textbook with its Slytherin-sharp comments in the margins, Draco couldn’t guess) – in short, after fulfilling his Potter-shaped responsibilities, at the end of the day Draco still had his own.

“Game of chess?” Weasley inquired as they sat around the Gryffindor fireplace that evening, Draco having claimed the largest, coziest sinkhole of a sofa for himself.  Everything was red velvet here as well: a sort of rust colour that was probably meant to look both respectable and invitingly lived-in.  Draco was reminded of how the Slytherin Common Room was redesigned every few years on funds from the wealthier parents, including his own.

“Nonsense, Ron; Harry has the Charms homework and the Potions reading yet to do.  Which, may I say, you do as well.”

Draco clamped down on the reflexive disgust he felt at the sound of the Mudblood’s voice, ignored the stab of exasperated affection that didn’t belong to him.  He was losing patience with the Potter palimpsest already, for all it gave excellent advice; it was wearing, acting contrary to one’s inclinations all the time.

“And the Quidditch tryouts tomorrow,” Weasley sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

“Yes, and those, too,” Granger agreed.

Draco’s breath caught.  “Right,” he said aloud. 

“Oh, Harry; don’t tell me you _forgot_ ,” Granger chided.  “I hear a great number of people are planning on trying out.”

“People do follow a star,” Draco scoffed.

Granger and Weasley stared.

“Yes, well, that’s rather the problem, isn’t it?” Granger said, tossing that mane of bushy hair back away from her face in a motion that was at once entitled and rather self-conscious.  “The vast majority of them are there to stare at your new three centimetres – in _height_ Ron, don’t waggle your eyebrows at me! – and your Quidditchy musculature.”

“My… Quidditchy –?!”

“Shut up,” Granger ordered.

“I’m also very Quidditchy, I’ll have you know,” Weasley insisted, affronted.

“I doubt it’s anything to do with centimetres in any direction,” Draco said.  “More to do with the very fact that... I’m famous,” he said.  _I, me, I’m famous_.

“And we all know how much you adore posing for your fans,” Granger said apologetically, “but bear up!  I’ll buy you a butterbeer afterwards if you manage to avoid hexing anyone.”

“A worthy inducement,” Draco said, and Weasley laughed.

“The Malfoy thing you’ve got going is pretty good, actually,” he said, and Draco froze.

“What Malfoy thing?” Granger inquired, lips quirking, ready to laugh; these Gryffindor fools were all like that, even Granger, always poised to leap to humour, while Draco’s heart beat double-time.

“Don’t you hear it?  _A worthy inducement…_ and earlier he calls me _Weasley_ in that high-brow sort of voice –”

“Plummy,” Hermione offered.

“Ooh, good one, yeah, _plummy_ voice.  It’s spot on, it is.”

Draco felt himself stand; he bowed, in perfect pureblooded fashion, from the waist; he added a few extra flourishes at the wrist; then, with perfect comedic timing, he looked up from under his lashes and raised his eyebrows.  “Draco Malfoy, at your service.”

There was a beat of silence in which Draco feared he’d made a terrible mistake.  Granger and Weasley were staring and blinking in shock.

But then a grin grew on Weasley’s face.  “How did you – _do_ that?”

And Granger broke into delighted applause.  “At yours and your family’s!” she returned, which didn’t make much sense to Draco but which sent her into further peals of laughter.

Draco straightened and raked a hand through his now-unruly hair.  “Well, I’ve been watching the git for six years.  I should know more than anyone what he’s like.”

“We all know you’ve been watching him,” Weasley said in an oddly significant way, exchanging an oddly significant look with Granger.  “Still, that was _uncanny_ , mate.  Five stars.”

Draco bowed again, this time in a far less studied way, and sat to a second round of applause, from various corners of the room; Gryffindors were laughing and elbowing each other.  “They can’t have _heard_ that,” he muttered.  “They don’t even know what they’re clapping for.”

“For you,” Granger said, simply, and Draco blinked.

Merlin’s sky and stars, he’d been right all along: Gryffindors clapped at Harry Potter for merely existing.

“They’re clapping because it’s fun and because they like to see you having a good time,” Granger elaborated.  She sounded exasperated; she must’ve seen the look on his face.  “Like it or not, a lot of them look to how you’re doing in terms of – how things are going.”

Weasley swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing on his freckled throat.  “Did you see the paper?  They’re pretty sure of the Vance thing, now.  Not even denying it was murder, now, are they?”

Draco watched Granger’s shoulders hunch in and felt a stab of discomfort from Potter.  Of course Potter wouldn’t want Granger upset; the fragile line of her shoulder was doing strange things to his guts.  Potter’s.  His.

It was all the same for now, but –

“The Prophet said that Thicknesse has replaced Bones as head of Magical Law Enforcement,” Granger contributed.  “This is very, very bad.  This is how it starts.”

Neither Weasley nor Draco interrupted her, but it took her a moment to gather herself and speak again.

“It isn’t random.  He Who Must Not Be Named is murdering high-placed people and tugging this or that thread to ensure someone on his side is next in line.  Perhaps he’s been doing it for years.”

Granger and Weasley shuddered simultaneously.

“So we can’t trust anyone who’s a replacement,” Granger went on.  “Chances are, they’re not on our side.”

Weasley didn’t disagree.  He thumped back into his seat as though the revelation had physically knocked him back; he stared into the fire.  “Well,” he said at length, “I’m… not worried about Quidditch tryouts anymore.”

“That’s the spirit,” Hermione said weakly and offered up a wavering smile.  “Harry?  Harry?”

It took Draco a moment longer than it ought to have, to remember that she meant him.

“What do you think of all this?” Granger prompted – gently, for her.

What a question.  Draco thought Vance and Bones were blood traitors and had to be eradicated.  It was ugly and – and ( _wrong_ , Draco’s gut told him – _wrongwrongwrong_ ) – but it had to be done, and those with the clear-sightedness to know it and the power to do it were to be admired. 

He was aiming, hoping, to be one of those men himself, someday: the sort you called on to do difficult tasks that needed doing.  The sort that was _above_ remorse – confident in his superior understanding of the Way Things Ought to Be and in his ability – and the ability of those like him – to turn the tide so that the world spun on a more even and orderly keel.  Back the way it was before there were Mudbloods and Muggleborns polluting the Wizarding World.  Back when his place was inviolate and unquestioned and definitively over those around him.

Draco looked up to find Weasley and Granger staring at him.

“Harry,” Granger whispered again.

_Harry._

_Right._

But the Potter palimpsest was silent for once.

“It’s just that you’re probably right, Hermione,” he said, and her name sounded like Weasley’s: natural rolling off Potter’s tongue.  “We can’t trust anyone who’s been replaced.” 

 

* * *

 

Late that night, Draco crept towards the Room of Requirement only to catch sight of a small girl wearing a Slytherin badge parading back and forth: Crabbe, or else Goyle, disguised. 

Draco flattened himself against an alcove until the tiny sentry had passed before making his way back to Gryffindor Tower…

 

…

 

……

 

…..

 

He awoke with a start, sitting up so rapidly that the motion caused his head to throb.  Or… no, his head was just _throbbing_ , he – where was he?  How had he gotten wherever he was? 

All around him it was dark.  Still nighttime, then?

Merlin – he ought to have known that being Potter would get him killed sooner rather than later.  Though whoever had knocked him out – or moved him once he’d been knocked out – obviously hadn’t intended to kill him…

Perhaps the Dark Lord intended to kill Harry Potter, himself.  He wouldn’t be surprised.

He was definitely in a room, on a bed – though tossed across the bed rather haphazardly, and no one had bothered to remove his shoes or throw a cursory blanket over him; but it was all still rather more comforting than the inside of a stone cellar with a bar at the door, so.

Rising, still rubbing at the back of his neck –

… _not_ his, _not_ his, and that ruff of unruly curls and cowlicks was still so strange he had to sit down again straightaway, dizzy…

…or that wasn’t why he was dizzy, honestly, but that had to be a decent measure of why…

Then the door opened and rough hands hauled him to his feet; and when he tried to protest, nothing emerged out of his mouth… someone must’ve cast _Silencio_ …

The bright lights blinded him so badly that it took a full half-minute before he realized where he was.

_Shit._

He transferred his gaze to his captors; Crabbe and Goyle senior held an arm on either side.  He was in the East Wing of Malfoy Manor.  He’d been captured and taken to _Malfoy Manor_.

Draco gawped as they dragged him forward.  He was about to be murdered.  He was about to be murdered in the home of his ancestors.

If he could have, he might have laughed ‘til he cried.

As it was, he kicked and hissed, wriggled and spat; he shouted silent imprecations on their families, ancestry, and sexual prowess.  He fought for his life, and wondered – with the part of his brain inclined to be honest with itself – that if he had to do this yearly, like Potter, he might not have gone a little mad.  He felt he was going a little mad now, actually, until Crabbe, senior gave him a rather sobering slap across the mouth.

The doors to the Malfoy ballroom opened, and the pair tossed him forward so that he landed on his hands and knees, the marble fireplace ablaze to his right.

The robes of some other wizard, flickering and shifting in the light of the flames; as Draco lifted his chin, he saw _himself_ , standing over him with arms crossed over his chest, smirking.

He scrambled to his feet and whirled to see that the room’s usual furniture had been shoved aside, and their most elaborate dining room table had been placed at the room’s centre, with every chair full; his father was – wait.

His _father_.

Lucius Malfoy sat at the table’s right-hand, and he looked tired and bedraggled, but he was there, he was – broken out of Azkaban, _Merlin_ , Draco thought dizzily, _he’s all right_ , and his mother on Lucius’s other side; and Dolohov, and – who cared because his father was out of Azkaban, and –

Lord Voldemort was at the table’s head.

“He does not even reach for his wand,” Voldemort intoned.  “Neither of them do.”

“Twenty four hours does not a success make,” said another voice, and Draco whipped his head around to observe his Aunt Bellatrix, sneering in his general direction.  “If you want to be safe, my Lord, I still say we should kill him.”

“We did that already,” Narcissa interjected, and the Death Eaters turned as one to hear her speak; Draco blinked.  His mother had never made a single comment at a meeting in all his memory.

Draco darted a glance over at his counterpart, but the boy appeared just as confused as he was.

 _You,_ Draco wanted to say.  _You’re the one who did this…_

“Ah,” said Voldemort.  “Let us hear the boy speak.  _Finite incantatem_.”

But what was there for Draco to now say?  He swallowed.

“A naturally obedient young man, as ever,” said Voldemort.

“What… _him_?” the other Draco Malfoy screeched, and – incredibly –

The Death Eaters around the table chuckled, as though he were a child who’d asked a naïve or humorously inappropriate question at a fancy dinner...

Their response matched exactly, down to not addressing Malfoy’s question at all.

“What am I doing here?” Draco demanded.  “Why is _he_ here?”

Potter’s bravery was good for something, he supposed; that insistent nudge forward he’d felt on facing Snape seemed to have ratcheted up and up and up, along with his heartbeat, his blood pressure, and his tendency to pray to whatever gods might be listening.

“It’s all right,” Narcissa said, leaning forward in her seat, both hands pressed to the table’s surface until her fingertips went white.  “Tell us your name.”  She lowered her head, looking up through her lashes.  “Your _full_ name.”

Draco drew himself up.  “Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he said, and a series of relieved and happy sighs circulated around the table until a smattering of light applause broke out –

“ _What?_ ” the other Draco demanded, going rather white in the face.  “What?  Mother!”

But Narcissa didn’t reply; she didn’t even look at him, choosing to regard Draco warmly, instead.  The applause didn’t cease until Voldemort held one hand in the air; then it cut off as though it had been sliced clean through.  The fire was hot against Draco’s neck; he could feel the hair there begin to curl with his sweat.

“Narcissa Black-Malfoy,” Lord Voldemort said.  “Any pleasure I might express at your success would be a mere shadow of my true feeling.  How is it that you have succeeded where others have... so _frequently_ failed?”

“A mother’s love finds a way, my Lord,” Narcissa said, bending her neck with a polite smile.

“Finds a way to what?” Malfoy shouted.  “Mother… look at me!”

“If I’m Draco Malfoy,” said Draco, thumbing at his counterpart, “who – or what – is that?”

“It’s no one,” Narcissa said, at the same time Lord Voldemort replied, “it’s nothing.”

Malfoy had gone quiet, hanging on their words.  It was clear to Draco that he was either someone or something, and he was leaning towards the some _one_ because only a person’s face could go that white and only a person would swallow again and again like they feared they might vomit.

“It’s a piece of soul,” Draco’s father contributed suddenly, and unexpectedly.  “A fragment.  Meaning –”

“It’s a Horcrux,” Draco breathed, turning to stare.

“Lucius!” Narcissa chided.

“I’m… what?” said Malfoy.  He was turning his hands over and over before his eyes, as though answers might be hidden in the dusting of hair across his knuckles, in the whorls of his fingertips.  “No, I’m not.”

Narcissa turned to him.  “You’re a mere imprint of my son.  You may have his memories, but you are an impression, only.  A magical portrait that can walk on two feet, and that is all.”

“If he has a fragment of my soul,” Draco said, slowly.  “I’ve lost a part of it?”

“That’s why we left a bit of the Potter boy’s behind,” Narcissa explained, “to ensure you remained a _complete_ person.  Well, that, and…”

Bellatrix rolled her eyes and broke through Narcissa’s explanation.  “Our Lord is replacing high-positioned people all over Britain,” she said with a shark-like grin.  “Making them our people.  Some are _dying_ ,” she said, miming an expression of great sorrow in a way that was so counterfeit that Draco’s stomach turned, “some are under the Imperius Curse, but little Hawwy Potter is the first who’s been successfully… replaced.  And to be a believable _replacement_ , you’ll need to have a hint or two about Potter.  Or so some of us have insisted,” she tacked on, glaring sourly at her sister.

Draco’s breath trembled in his lungs.  “Potter’s dead,” he said, and it came out like a fact.

“No, darling,” Narcissa said with a bright smile.  “Harry Potter is _you_.”

“But he died; he definitely died.  You killed him,” Malfoy broke in.  “Because that’s how you make a Horcrux.”

Once again, everyone behaved – not as though he weren’t in the room, quite; a few people _tsk_ ed or their gazes transferred briefly to him – but as though what he had to say wasn’t worth much of their attention.

“What about him?” Draco wondered.

“Well, he’s part of the ruse, dear,” Narcissa explained.  “With a boy walking around looking and talking like Draco Malfoy, no one should suspect your involvement, should they?”

“So… what?” Draco said.  “Harry Potter declares for the Dark Lord and no one finds this the least suspicious?”

“Don’t be silly dear, you’re embarrassing your mother,” Narcissa said.

Draco swallowed.  “I should stay close to the Weasel and the Mudblood and be kind to kittens and blood traitors… at first.  Begin to make a few pureblooded friends.  Cooperate with your people at the Ministry.  Use what’s left of Potter to guide me, to make my reactions believable in the eyes of his friends.  Convert people to the right way of thinking where I can.  Show worry and lack of faith in our cause to those I know I can’t.  And someday – in the near future – youngest Minister for Magic.  With you as my silent advisor, My Lord.  Does that meet your expectations, Mother?”

With every word out of his mouth, Narcissa looked more smug and the Dark Lord more intrigued.  Even his Aunt Bellatrix looked begrudgingly impressed.

“And I should do what?” Malfoy said, voice high.

Lucius finally addressed him.  “Nothing.  You should do _nothing_.”

“I can still do it,” Malfoy went on in that same, desperate tone.  “I can still kill him.  I could, Father; please.”

Lucius hung his head, but it was Voldemort who answered.

“You understand that I never intended you to succeed,” the Dark Lord intoned.  “It was a punishment, for your father’s slow thinking and poor planning.  Your mother’s cleverness is all that saved you.”

“I can,” Malfoy said again.  “The Vanishing Cabinets…”

“Are not _necessary_ ,” Voldemort interrupted, with a slice of his hand.  “Did you truly believe we could not get at Albus Dumbledore if that were our true desire?  Or Harry Potter?  What do you suppose prevented us?”

“The,” Malfoy stammered.  “The wards?”

Lucius scoffed.  “They let any Animagus through.  Peter could have slit Potter’s throat in the night… easily.  They let animals through… Greyback could have slipped in one full moon and torn Potter to pieces.  They let members of the Board through, of which _I am one._   Don’t imagine that I could not have ended Potter, were that the Dark Lord’s wish.  Until now, Potter was kept alive for various reasons, none of which had to do with a lack of _accessibility._ ”

That shut Malfoy up quickly, and Draco, too. 

“It was a trial, Draco-kins,” Aunt Bellatrix cooed.  “We’d been planning Dumbledore’s murder for just _ages_ , you see.  But making you, and dear Lucius sweat, first – that was the real fun.”

 _Don’t let it show, don’t let it show,_ Draco thought wildly.  He refused to curl his fingers into fists, he refused to think or feel _anything_ , _Merlin_ , they’d just been _fucking_ with him – no, no, no, don’t think about it, think about – Quidditch, being high up in the air, _anything, anything_ else…

“Then why _didn’t_ you?” Malfoy spat at his side.  “If you could’ve killed Potter at any time, why didn’t you just do it?  And Dumbledore, too?”

“My plans, beyond as they involve you directly, are none of your concern,” the Dark Lord said.

Malfoy didn’t seem aware that he was in danger – at least not in any traditional sense.  He was pale and shaky and might be in something like shock, and kept muttering something under his breath about diaries.

It occurred to Draco, too, that none of the other Death Eaters had so much as breathed a word, and that they were there merely to observe.  From the moment they’d kidnapped him (all too easily – he’d _never sleep again_ \--) not telling him why he was here, it was all to ensure that whatever they’d done, however they’d done it, had worked, demonstrating the Dark Lord’s brilliance and forethought.

“Will you Obliviate him?” Draco queried, thumbing at his counterpart.

“That thing?  Why bother?” said Voldemort, and then Crabbe and Goyle were grabbing them and hustling them from the room.

Malfoy was still muttering to himself and would be of no help in the discernible future.  Not that Draco knew what he’d ask for if his companion were coherent.  His mind was reeling.

Potter was dead.

Potter was _dead._

It was fine, of course.  Not a problem.  Just.

Had he screamed?  He’d probably screamed.

Who had done it?

Had Dumbledore ever thought that a _student_ could knock out another _student_ and Mobilicorpus them off of school grounds?

 _Shit_.

So perhaps a student – an older student, bigger than scrawny Potter, maybe, someone in seventh-year – had knocked Potter out from behind.  Maybe they’d murdered him while he was still unconscious.  Maybe they’d been Imperiused; maybe Obliviated afterward.

No, no – knowing Potter he’d fought, tooth and nail.

And Voldemort would have wanted him to have been awake and aware.

Voldemort would have wanted him to know what was coming.

Voldemort probably told him what he’d just told Draco:

That he could’ve killed Potter at any time, really.

That he could go back and kill anyone Potter had ever cared for –

_Granger._

_Weasley!_

Nononono –

 _Get ahold of yourself.  It’s just Potter.  It’s Potter losing his mind over his friends, not you_.

Shockingly, that seemed to help.  It was only Potter’s feelings about Granger and Weasley that were interfering with his total lack of interest in –

\-- hatred for! –-

Granger.

And Weasley.

Right.

So he just needed to focus on himself for a moment.  Just ignore the way his heart was thudding against the cage of his chest, the way everything had gone all _tingly_ , the way his feet were sort of _numb_ , the way the hallway had gone all _sparkling_ , and –-

 

…

 

….

 

…

 

Draco awoke in the Gryffindor Common Room in a panic that was instant and complete.

_Granger._

_Weasley!_

They were in danger, he had to – he had to find them, get to them – Granger, first –

The bloody _stairs_ wouldn’t let him up, _fuck –_

Weasley first!

Draco scurried up the stairs and burst into the room he shared with the Gryffindor sixth-years and darted forward to throw back the curtains on Weasley’s bed.

Ron lay there, washed out by the moonlight and his native paleness, and for a moment, Draco was so sure he was dead that his heart – quite literally – stopped a moment before kicking like a mule.

He fell forward with a gasp and shook Weasley, who awoke instantly.

“Harry?  What is it!”

“Hermione!” said Draco, and Weasley blinked and grabbed his broom.

 _Yes, yes of course_ , Draco thought and cast about before Ron _Accio’d_ and a second broom flew from Potter’s trunk.  Together they burst into the girls’ dorm and found Hermione, who awoke before they reached her and shooed them back into the hallway.

“What on earth?!” she demanded, hands on hips.  “What’s the _matter_?”

Draco stared at them.

He wasn’t _sure_.

Why had he gotten them?

He didn’t care if they lived or died –-

Weasley gathered Granger close; she gasped aloud before clinging, staring at Draco over Weasley’s shoulder.

The Potter palimpsest was screaming, screeching in panic.  Shaking and juddering apart.

“We,” Weasley was babbling, “we thought you were – we thought something had –”

“Okay, all right,” Granger said, pulling out of Weasley’s embrace.  When she caught sight of Draco, something shifted in her expression.  “ _Harry_.”

Draco shook his head, which he _hadn’t meant to do._

“Okay,” Granger said, “hang on.”

She disappeared into her bedroom, emerging a moment later with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and fuzzy slippers on her feet.  “Harry, go get the Map.”

“What?”

Granger, bless her, turned to Weasley.  “Ron, go get the Map.”

When Weasley re-mounted his broom to return to the boys’ dormitory, Granger turned to him.  “Here,” she said, and pulled him close.

He yanked himself away, but Granger only clucked her tongue.  “We’re talking about this,” she whispered, and Draco ignored her, vibrating in place until Weasley returned.

Granger perched on the side of Weasley’s broom for fun’s sake, Draco supposed at first, but then they stayed on the brooms as they exited the Fat Lady’s portrait, and Draco was surprised to find how calming it was, focusing on keeping his balance and steering straight.  They didn’t go far, though – they arrived at the room where Potter had been holding those little dueling sessions and Weasley dismounted, folding the magical Map and tucking it away.

Ron strode back and forth in front of the doorway once, twice, three times, before opening it.

Inside there was a cozy little sitting room with a fire cheerily blazing in the hearth.  There was a very plain square table set at the room’s center, and a small couch set behind it, with many blankets and pillows strewn across its back.  All was in red-and-gold and very much in the expensive-yet-lived-in style of Gryffindor Tower, which didn’t exactly set Draco’s mind at ease but did serve as a constant reminder of who he was and to whom he was talking, which managed to be useful in its way. 

There were only three places to sit, and Weasley and Granger immediately claimed the corners, leaving Draco no choice but to sit in the middle.  Instead, he sat on the table, facing them –

That was, until Granger yanked him forward and wrapped her arms around him.

Weasley did the same on the other side, and Draco shoved them both away without checking in with the Potter palimpsest at all.

“Well, I just – I was worried about you both, but I see you’re all right, and so –”

“Nice try,” said Granger, and tugged him right back down, aggressive little Mudblood that she was.

Weasley on his other side was squishing him and he could hardly breathe, and –

 _Comfort.  Home.  Family_ , the Potter palimpsest whispered, relieved.

 _Shut up_ , Draco hissed internally, but it was too late.  Relief was seeping into his skin, his muscles, down to the bone.  Granger and Weasley were intact; they were all right.  Never in his life had he felt so reassured, so settled in his own skin.

All right, so he needed them – for now.  He still hated them, hated everything they stood for.  Hated every molecule in their bodies.

But just now – their bodies, pressed to either side of him – were calming and marvelous and.

Oh, _no_.  Here came the waterworks.

Draco pulled hastily away.  “So, Hermione, you’ve probably read _Hogwarts: a history_ ,” he babbled.

Weasley chuckled at his left.  “Probably?”

“What are the wards like around Hogwarts?”

“Oh, _Harry_ ,” said Hermione.  “That must’ve been some nightmare.”

“ _Just…!_ ”  Draco took a breath.  “Answer the question.”

“Well, the wards are designed to keep out anyone with evil intent.”

“Towards what?”

Granger looked puzzled in the low light.

“I mean,” Draco said, knowing he was treading on thin ice.  “Malfoy would probably enjoy murdering me in my sleep, but he walks through the doors each year.”

Granger’s features fell into chiding lines, her lip quirking up on one side as she raised her brows.  “I hardly think Malfoy’s actually out to _kill_ you, Harry.”

“I,” said Draco.  “What?”

“Seriously, Hermione, _what_?” Weasley echoed.

“Because you two have exchanged _words_ , even a punch-up, that’s not the same as wanting you dead,” Granger protested.  “Malfoy is many things, but he isn’t _a murderer_.”

Draco, against all expectations, felt a bit touched.  That was, until Weasley began to laugh.

“Pull the other one, Hermione.”

“Oh?  Who has Malfoy murdered?”

“What, like we have to wait for him to have a go?”

“Uh, can we talk about something else?” Draco whispered desperately.  “Fine, not that Malfoy – the other one.  The wards let Lucius Malfoy through.  Unless you’re claiming he also wants me healthy and well.”

Weasley looked worried and Granger puzzled.

“Well,” Hermione offered.  “He’s on the Board?  Maybe that makes a difference?”

“You aren’t serious,” said Weasley.

“I do know that there’s something to alert the Headmaster if anyone with the Dark Mark crosses the wards onto school grounds,” Granger said, pensively.

“But since Lucius Malfoy got off last time by saying he was under Imperius, everyone knows he has a Dark Mark,” Weasley contributed.  “So the wards might… _ring_ , or whatever it is that they do… but Dumbledore would be expecting them to alert him, and he’d turn them off.”

“And animals can get through?” Draco said.  “You wouldn’t want the wards going off every time a bird pecked at a window.”

“It’s clear they don’t distinguish Animagi from animals, given Sirius.”

“Given serious what?” said Draco.

“Given he walked straight into Gryffindor Tower, mate,” Ron supplied.  “Honestly, are you all right?”

“Not sure,” Draco said, which felt perfectly true.  “So the wards do nothing for intent towards _individual_ students – it might be different if it were an attempt to take over the school; nothing to prevent Animagi, one of whom we _know_ is a Death Eater, from entering; nothing to stop someone who belongs at Hogwarts from knocking someone out and carrying them off of school grounds…?”

Granger had gone white.  “There has to be something…”  Her face brightened.  “The Secrecy Sensors!  They searched us when we came through this year, they would’ve found any sinister object…”

“A _sinister object_ like a wand?” Weasley scoffed.  “That’s all anyone needs.  Do I have to remind you that a literal Death Eater using Polyjuice _worked here_ all last year?  He didn’t need a special, sinister object to stir up trouble then, did he?”

“So my question is: why aren’t we all dead yet?” Draco pressed, ashamed when his voice wobbled a bit at the end.

Granger frowned, tapping her fingers on her knee.  “Okay, so I think we should consider leaving,” she said at length.  She looked up.  “If you’re right, Harry, and Hogwarts isn’t as well protected as we’ve been led to believe, there’s no reason to stay here.”

“But,” said Weasley.  “Classes?”  He shook his head and clucked his tongue.  “I can’t believe _I’m_ mentioning classes…”

“They won’t be much use if we’re dead,” Granger said grimly.  “Harry?”

It went against everything Voldemort had been trying to work towards, but checking in with the Potter palimpsest told Draco that Potter would want everyone safe, first of all.  “We should focus on putting up our own, personal wards, wards that will protect against anyone who means _us_ harm.  Let’s aim to put them around the girls’ and boys’ dormitories.  People who would want to hurt us are likely to attack at night when everyone’s asleep.”

And it was a little heady how quickly they agreed, Weasley’s features going tactician-mobile as he considered before nodding, Granger swiftly agreeing to research wards and ward-making tomorrow morning.

The rush of warmth was all Potter, but it was far from unpleasant.

“It’s okay,” Granger said, looking warmly into Potter’s features and placing her small palm over his own.  “We’re all going to be okay,” she repeated, and Weasley brought his hand over hers _and_ Harry’s, to cover and squeeze all three.

 _But one of you was already killed,_ Draco thought.   _And you didn’t even notice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who followed and reviewed so far! A chapter less than 24 hrs after the first, just for you. <3


	3. Chapter 3

Potter ( _dead_ ) greeted Draco Malfoy in the mirror.  Potter’s hands raked through Potter’s hair in the shower: Potter, who was dead.  Draco lifted his arm and Potter’s rose; Draco cleaned his teeth before the mirror and Potter’s shone.  Draco raised his hand to smooth both unruly eyebrows and froze mid-motion, blinking bright green eyes into the mirror, hand falling.  The mirror was misty and of course Draco had removed his ( _Potter’s_ ) glasses to splash his face; and so the mirror held a misty unreality that looked not unlike the Beyond.

“Hey, Harry?   _Harry_ ,” said Weasley at his elbow, and Draco blinked himself to alertness.  Ron steered him away from the Gryffindor boys’ restrooms, where Dean was beginning to stare, and cast about before realizing everyone was getting ready and there was no one left in their dorm.  Neville poked his head in and seemed to sense something immediately; he shook his head and backed out before Weasley had to say a word.

“Hey,” he repeated, taking Draco by both shoulders and ducking to catch his gaze.  “Hey, you with me?”

And as if Weasley saying it made it so, Draco found himself jerking a nod.

Weasley lifted his hand and ruffled Potter’s still-wet hair, but his features remained pinched.

Draco straightened and offered up a crooked smile, and that seemed to settle Weasley, who offered up a more genuine, relieved grin of his own.

How they depended on each other, Draco thought, scrounging for a clean shirt and trousers, feeling that reflexive disgust – he really needed to shop for proper clothing – before shrugging into them.  He’d almost forgotten why they’d risen so much earlier than their peers until Weasley tossed him Potter’s broom and said, “see you on the field!”

He searched his memory until  _tryouts_  lifted up out of his dazed fog.  It was like he could still feel Weasley’s hands pressing into the tops of his shoulders: phantom encouragement that he’d left on Draco like a brand.  He shook his shoulders as a dog shakes off water, which dispelled the impression, somewhat.

Draco threw Potter’s Quidditch leathers atop his oversized clothing, tightening the braces with a queer feeling of familiarity, coupled with what felt like deliberate mistakes: Potter’s arms were longer and slightly more muscular than Draco’s; Potter’s hands were wider and shorter, making him tighten the gloves far more than he would normally. 

And, of course, everything was in red-and-gold, which made Draco shudder.

The weather was dismal: cold and raining, which Draco supposed made for a bit better tryouts.  Those who could fly in fair weather were one thing; those who could in foul were another.

People had always told Draco he was a bit, well.   _Bossy_.  When people (who weren’t Slytherins) spoke of Potter, they used words like ‘commanding’ and ‘heroic’ and ‘noble’.  Honestly, Draco had never been sure what made the difference.  Potter was always telling people what to do, left right and centre; what was it about his commands that were acceptable and what was it about Draco’s that were so off-putting?

“Remember,” said a dark-eyed, dark-haired girl as she entered the pitch, “no pulling favours for your friends.  There are good players and there are bad players.  Got it?”

“Yeah,” Draco replied, nodding once.  It was good advice, really – and a good reminder of the difference between Slytherin tactics and Gryffindor.  When he’d thought he’d become Captain of Slytherin, he’d immediately begun to juggle family alliances versus skill; it was likely why Hufflepuff and Slytherin tended not to win the Quidditch Cup: they chose teammates for reasons beyond merit.

It took some time for everyone in Quidditch gear to trickle into the playing field.  Meanwhile, the stands populated with a cluster of giggling girls who occasionally turned to him and went silent, before clustering and giggling again.

Draco procured a sign-in sheet and watched them all carefully so that he would know their names.  Moreover, he planned on calling them one at a time to demonstrate their skills and using the list to pair them up; Potter probably already knew their strengths and weaknesses and this was all for show, but as – Draco peered down at his chart –  _Bell_  had mentioned, it was an important show.  No one could claim favouritism if they saw a player’s skill for themselves.

A quintessential Gryffindor – large, lumbering, arrogant – strode confidently up to shake Draco’s hand.

“We met on the train, in old Sluggy’s compartment. Cormac McLaggen, Keeper.”

“I don’t recall you playing for Gryffindor last year,” Draco observed coolly; behind McLaggen, he could see Weasley shamelessly listening in.

“I was in the Hospital Wing when they held the trials,” said McLaggen, puffing out his chest.  “Ate a pound of doxy eggs for a bet.”

“Brilliant,” said Draco, gesturing him to the stands and raising both brows at Weasley once McLaggen had turned, along with a whirl at his temple for good measure.  Weasley tossed back his head and snorted.

“All right, everyone who’s interested in trying out, we’re going to split into teams,” Draco announced, then froze.

He’d caught sight of Malfoy, standing far across the way, but certainly close enough to observe what went on at the pitch.  There was no mistaking that white-blond hair, even at a distance.

Weasley followed his gaze in alarm.  “I’ll get it,” he growled, and stamped off Malfoyward.

“Right,” said Draco, because it was out of his hands, now.  There was nothing to do but press forward.  “So: Bell on one side, McLaggen on the other.  Pick one-then-one – Bell, ladies first.”

She tipped an invisible hat at him and chose Weasley, for whenever he came back.  Quite a show of faith, and intended to be one, unless he missed his guess.  Hrm.  McLaggen chose a short but beefy fourth-year named Peakes, and they were off and running.  There were a great deal more students present than Draco had initially thought, and their teams were beginning to grow comically large when he realized he'd never seen Romilda on the field before. "Vane, do you even play?"

Romilda Vane’s eyes widened and she raised the back of her hand to her forehead.  “You’ve got me!” she proclaimed, staggering back, and Draco realized as her friends surrounded her, giggling, that she’d been part of the group of giggling girls that had been staring holes into his face earlier.

“Get out unless you’re actually  _eligible_ ,” Draco hissed, and they scattered, with much hurt looks behind them – that was, until they figured they were out of earshot and began giggling again.  “Merlin’s sky and stars,” he muttered, dragging his hand down his face.  “You lot,” he added, pointing out a few of the tiny first years.  “Let’s see you say  _up_  and mean it!”

The vast majority couldn’t even call a broom to the hand.

“Go to breakfast and try again next year,” Draco said, and that was about when Weasley returned, looking a bit red in the face but otherwise grimly satisfied.  He gave Draco a thumbs-up.

“Okay, clean game – show me what you’re made of,” said Draco with his best estimation of a kind smile, and weirdly, inexplicably…

…it worked.

Weasley went up to Keep, and so did McLaggen.  Bell assumed Chaser, and so did Ginny Weasley; two of the tinier kids, a second- and a third-year, respectively, went for the Snitch. 

Draco had to admit Ginny Weasley was one of the most talented players in the air.  She played with such ferocity that he recognized – with a stab of fellow-feeling – the look of a girl with something to prove.  By the end of the mock game, he knew already that she would be one of the team’s Chasers, along with Katie Bell, who played with such cool competence it was like she had already gone pro.  He called them down and watched the others for a while before choosing Coote and Robins, who needed polish but still had potential.

That left the Keepers.

Weasley tossed him a worried look before re-mounting his broom and the remaining contenders for positions on the team rose, each to lob a Quaffle in either Keeper’s direction.  Ginny aimed for McLaggen; he saved it.  The crowd cooed in appreciation.  Ginny turned and aimed for her brother – and didn’t lob it gently, either – and he managed to catch it, just with the very tips of his fingers.

And so it went – Bell aimed and both caught; Peakes aimed and Weasley batted it away, and McLaggen caught it in the gut – Robins did a fancy sweep with her broom and Weasley caught it  _easily_  – saw that coming, Draco thought – and she did a more traditional fastball to McLaggen, who batted it away at the last moment –

The pair made it to five and five and Draco was growing worried and restless.  He saw the same anxiety on Weasley’s face.  One of them was going to miss, and at this point it wasn’t even a matter of skill: catching five of five was comparable no matter how you looked at it.  “Okay, come in,” said Draco.  “Just you five – Weasley, McLaggen, you stay up.”

Weasley, Peakes, Bell, Robins, and Coote lowered to hover in front of Draco.

“All five of you at once,” he said, and Ginny’s brows climbed.

“Are you sure, Harry?” she said.

“Look,” Draco replied, “they’re both excellent.  One way or another, I need a reason to choose one of them.  Neither is going to catch all five, and we’ll be able to call this a day.  I want you to plan it together, too – two sets of moves, one for each Keeper.  Strategize.  Pretend it’s the Slytherin hoop.”  They nodded, grimly, and Bell went to fetch extra Quaffles.

Draco rose on his broom and called the Keepers in and informed them of his plan.  Both looked nervous, but Weasley was squaring his shoulders and squinting down at the five as if divining what they might be saying.  Then he moved back to guard his hoop, circling nervously.

The five rose, although each of them settled at different heights.  Draco whistled and…

Ginny shot straight up so that she was nearly  _behind_  the Hoop; she dropped her Quaffle so that Bell  _punched_  it forward.  Bell had already tossed  _her_  Quaffle to Peakes, who was aiming from Weasley’s right.  Peakes had dropped his so that Coote tossed both his and Peakes’s in at once from below, and Robins once more went for her flashy broom-slap straight for Weasley’s head; and they all aimed true.

Weasley whacked Bell’s with his own fist, tilted at an angle to block Peakes’s with his broom, caught Cootes’s two at the chest and inverted completely to whack Robins’s with his broom, upside-down and away from the Hoop like a pendulum swing.

Draco felt his jaw drop; the Potter palimpsest was crying with victory and joy and pride and a million other incredulous delights, so that he whirled about on his broom and darted for Weasley, who was looking incredulous.  “Did I?” he was saying.  “Did I get it?”

The few left on the stands were shrieking their heads off.

Bell was shaking her head and Ginny threw herself at her brother in mid-air – not something Draco would recommend under any circumstance – and shouting at the top of her voice. 

“Land!  Land, first!  No injuries before a game!” he ordered, and they landed in a pile of joy, everyone surrounding Weasley and jumping up and down as one, ill-coordinated mass.

McLaggen was on the ground, too, fuming.  “You planned this, Potter,” he accused, poking Draco in his chest.  “Someone told Weasley where those shots were all coming from.”

Draco turned, smirking.  “Oh.  Did they?  Did someone tell you, Weasley?”

Ron shook his head, still looking dazed.

“Bell, why don’t you tell McLaggen just where  _his_  shots will be coming from?” Draco offered, folding his arms.

Bell folded her own arms in tandem.  “Upper left, right, directly above, lower left, upper right – in that order,” she said.

“Well,” said Draco.  “Let’s see if McLaggen can replicate Weasley’s feat now that he knows exactly what he’s in for.”

McLaggen growled and rose in the air, but Draco didn’t even need to watch; he knew McLaggen would fail, and fail he did, catching two of the five Quaffles lobbed his way.  One he seemed to bar by utter mistake, catching it on the edge of one leg, but the remaining two went through the hoop.

Weasley heaved a huge sigh of relief, nudging Draco’s shoulder with his own. 

McLaggen landed too swiftly, stumbling forward and clearly steaming.  Draco only didn’t step back because that Potter-nudge, the one that told him not only to stand his ground but to step forward, had stiffened his spine.  “This was a setup,” he said.  “Weasley must’ve practised those moves a thousand times with his friends.”

“Or I’m just that good,” Weasley offered.

“I want a rematch,” McLaggen growled.

“Sorry,” Draco said distantly.  “I’m afraid all my decisions are final.  Weasley’s the Keeper.  Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“If I could get just one more chance –”

Draco drew himself up to his full height.  “It’s not just his rather remarkable display of skill just now,” he said clearly.  “The Keeper has to be a strategist, McLaggen, same as Captain.  Weasley managed that just now not because he’s a Quidditch god, but because he guessed what his teammates might do beforehand, and acted accordingly, planning out how he would have to move.  Even when you knew where the shots were coming from, you could not plan well enough to do the same.  You didn’t lose the spot when you missed two of five.  You lost the spot the moment you became the sort of bloke who eats doxy eggs on a bet.”

McLaggen went pale, then red with fury; he lunged for Draco, but Potter was still with him and he didn’t even flinch back.

Like Weasley, he’d anticipated the reactions of his teammates, who held McLaggen back before he had the chance to touch Draco.

“Calm down and try next year,” Draco advised.  “Everyone  _on the team_ : first meeting next Tuesday,” he tacked on and strode away, Weasley in his wake.

 

* * *

 

 

“Did you  _see_ that?” Weasley demanded.  “Did you  _see_  it?”

“I was there,” Draco replied, amused.

“Did you know that your Captaincy voice sounds a cross between Draco Malfoy and Professor Snape?”

Draco turned to stare.

“Don’t give me that look!” Ron exclaimed.  “It was all  _Bell_  and  _Weasley_  and  _anyone stupid enough to eat doxy eggs probably can’t tie his laces in the morning_  which, by the way, was pretty brilliant.”

“What did you think of the picks?” Draco wondered, worried.

“Just what I would’ve done,” said Ron, waving one hand dismissively.  “Hope Hermione’s found some things out about wards,” he mused.  “Wish she could’ve been there – wish she could’ve seen it.”

“Better to let the rumours of your amazing skills reach her by ear, isn’t it?” said Draco.

Ron pointed at him.  “You may be onto something there, mate.  You may be, in fact, on to something.”

Had he waited long enough to ask?  Draco supposed he had…

“What did Malfoy want?”

Weasley shrugged.  “Who ever knows what Malfoy wants?  I told him he wasn’t going to get any of our Quidditch secrets from watching a tryout and he told me that _I’d_  best watch  _you._ ”

“ _Watch_  me,” Draco echoed, going cold all over.

“I figured it was his usual empty threats, though not as creative or innovative as his usual.”  Weasley did his best to imitate Draco’s own, upper-crust accent.  “I shall  _strangle_ you with your own  _entrails_ , Weasley, and display your body to your poverty-stricken  _family_ , who can’t even afford a  _funeral_.  You know.”

Draco stared.  “Dark,” he said.

“Dark, or  _Dark_?”

“Both, I guess,” said Draco.  Coming out of his Quidditch-induced distraction was almost painful.  For a few, blessed hours his brain had been free of thoughts of Death Eaters and death in general.  “To the library?”

“To the library,” said Ron, and they went to meet Granger.

 

* * *

 

 

The library had always been one of Draco’s favourite places, though so far as he knew, he’d kept the matter a secret.

He didn’t want to be labelled a swot: swots weren’t powerful; a swot wasn’t someone you looked up to.  So he was sure not to go often, and he whinged about schoolwork with the rest… but it wasn’t the schoolwork itself that made it a desirable location, anyway.

It was that it was quiet.  Restful.  A place where no one required him to speak, to engage, to perform.  His brain settled a bit, there. 

Sadly, Potter wasn’t known to enjoy the library very much, either, so he had to keep up the façade of irritation as he walked through the doors, scented that special ink-paper-mould smell in the air, absorbed the quiet hush of the place and meandered until he’d located Hermione Granger.

Granger was seated by a narrow, tall window, light spilling over her wild hair, quill in hand.  She looked the very picture of a studious young witch, and fondness blossomed from the Potter palimpsest, ran down Draco’s (Potter’s?) fingers and toes.  Weasley nudged him, full-body, and met Draco’s gaze with a grin. 

“Hermione,” Weasley said in a library-respectful sort of voice.

Granger licked a finger and turned the page in the huge volume in front of her; she scratched the side of her nose, smearing ink there, and scribbled a quick note on the parchment beside her.

“ _Hermione_ ,” Weasley repeated, more strained but about the same volume.

Granger frowned: clearly the passage was giving her some trouble.  She looked up in thought and finally caught sight of them, jumping.  “Ron!  Harry!  How long have you been standing there?  Why didn’t you say something?”

“You seemed so peaceful,” said Weasley.

She blinked, seeming to come fully awake.  “The Quidditch tryouts.  How did it go?”

Draco elbowed Ron before he went off on a monologue of his accomplishments.  “Oh, pretty well.  I got in.”

Her face lit up.  “Congratulations!” she exclaimed, and stood, kicking aside the chair to throw her arms around Ron.  “Well-done!”

Weasley’s face had turned bright red.  “Keeper,” he announced proudly, and Hermione thumped him on the shoulder with a loose fist.

Draco cleared his throat.  “Wards?”

“Okay,” Hermione began as the two boys seated themselves.  “I’d like to start by saying that, in the end of fourth year, when Harry was – removed from the grounds and C-Cedric was killed, that was the first time anyone would have a real reason to harm Harry.”

“Because He didn’t have a body, yet,” Weasley supplied.  “His followers were scattered and most didn’t even know he wasn’t dead.  Killing Harry wouldn’t have gotten them any brownie points.”

Draco stared.   _What?  What?  What?_

“But after that – last year – I don’t really understand why he wasn’t,” Hermione said, apologetically.  “Mad-Eye – well, Barty Crouch, Junior – was on the grounds for ages.  Let’s be honest with ourselves: he was a fully-trained wizard and a Death Eater.  He probably could’ve cornered and killed Harry at any point.  Which means he chose not to.”

“What about Harry’s mum?” Weasley queried.

Wasn’t Potter’s mother already dead?  Draco certainly hoped they didn’t ask him to contribute: he was catching about half of this.

Granger was shaking her head.  “Look – Harry has his mother’s protection while he’s living at home, but only  _when_  he’s living at home.  The same protection doesn’t extend to Hogwarts.  And while it seems to have especial protection against the original threat, presuming that extends to  _any_ Death Eater is ridiculous.  A Mother’s Love protection charm is powerful, but it doesn’t render the individual  _invulnerable to harm._ ”

“So your conclusion is: we’re alive only because He Who Must Not Be Named has decided not to kill us?” Weasley squeaked.

“Essentially,” Hermione agreed.  “And the question is: why not?”

 “The other question is: why hasn’t anyone else thought of this?” Draco pressed, because Granger was quickly sidling up to the truth.  “Couldn’t it be that there are things we aren’t aware of, protections we don’t know about?”

Granger looked dubious.  “It’s  _possible_ ,” she murmured.  “But I think individuals could get through the wards at any time.”  She pressed her hands to her head briefly, before whooshing out a disquieted breath and moving on.  “The thing is, it would take more than one witch or wizard to take down, say, the whole staff?  So the wards are mostly intent on keeping out an  _army_.  There’s nothing to prevent someone from being kidnapped or killed on campus.”

“Crikey,” Weasley breathed. 

“All this in combination of what we know from the  _Prophet_ is really worrying,” Granger added.  “What if someone’s looking to replace Harry – or all of us?”

Draco nearly bit through his lip.

“Harry resists the Imperius Curse, so we know he can’t be replaced, but,” said Granger, voice high, “what if one of us are compromised?  We’re going to have to practice volleying off the Curse, Ron!”

“Wait, wait – slow down,” Ron said.  “What do you mean, ‘replace one of us’?”

Granger wrung her hands, looking beside herself.  “We were just  _talking_  about this, Ron!  The Death Eaters are taking people in high positions and killing them… replacing them with their own people!  The Death Eaters have chosen not to kill us – we know, now, that they could at any time… well, why do you think they wouldn’t?  Don’t you think we’ve grown irritating enough to get rid of, even omitting the contents of the prophecy?  The only possibility is that we serve some purpose right where we are!”

“Okay, Hermione, easy,” Ron was saying, looking behind his shoulder.  Luckily, they still didn’t have much company.  “We’ll practice shaking it off, okay?”

Granger looked up, pinning Draco with her gaze.  “And that’s why we should start up the D.A. again until we know more.”

“What?” Weasley and Draco said, simultaneously.

“Please, just think about it, Harry!” Granger implored.  “We’re on the brink of war, you  _know_  we are – and we have to be able to defend ourselves!  It wouldn’t have to be against the rules, this time – we could ask McGonagall for permission to set it all up again.  It could end up being the difference between life and death for some of us!”

Draco thought about it.

To learn to shake off  _Imperio_ , some would have to learn to cast it.  Draco knew how already, of course; and it would be simple to teach the others.

He could show them that Dark Magic wasn’t always evil, could be used to teach strength and resilience.  It was the start to everyone learning that the divisions between Light and Dark weren’t always so clear, and that all magic had its uses.

He couldn’t have created a more perfect opportunity if he tried.

“On one condition,” Draco said.  “We need at least a few Slytherins this time, and we teach everyone else to shake off the curse as well.”

When they opened their mouths to object, Draco held up one hand and volleyed off his best arguments: not all Slytherins were for the Dark Lord; those who weren’t might as well be led to His door if the Light kept presuming Slytherins were evil by default; that Slytherins had the right to live as much as anybody; that they’d need to be the first to extend the hand, given notorious Slytherin pride.

“So long as you don’t say Draco Malfoy,” Weasley huffed, “I guess I’m in.”

Granger’s eyes were shining like stars.  “Oh, Harry!  You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for you to say that!  I’ll ask Pansy Parkinson.”

“ _What_ ,” the boys said again, in tandem.

“Oh, this is going to be  _lovely_ ,” Granger murmured.

They debated it back and forth a bit more, but it was determined that Pansy had enough enlightened self-interest to want to know how to protect herself and to know to avoid biting the hand that fed her.  From there, they moved on to personal wardcraft, and it was nearly suppertime before Ron and Draco went off to filch – er, obtain – the ingredients necessary for ward rituals.

Draco was already planning lessons on both in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reactions in real time are part of the reason why I choose to write and post fanfiction. Let me know what you think so far!


	4. Chapter 4

“Harry!”

Draco still didn’t answer to the name so automatically as he might’ve liked.

“Harry!”  It was Slughorn, puffing as he approached Draco and Ron, twiddling the ends of his long moustache with every sign of great enthusiasm.  “Just the man I was hoping to see!  Glad I could catch you before dinner.”

“Hello, Professor,” Draco said, politely.  He nodded to Ron to indicate he could go on ahead, but Weasley folded his arms at Slughorn and tapped his foot.

“What do you say to a spot of supper tonight in my rooms instead? We’re having a little party, just a few rising stars, I’ve got McLaggen coming and Zabini, the charming Melinda Bobbin — I don’t know whether you know her? Her family owns a large chain of apothecaries,” Slughorn babbled.

“Harry’s got a detention with Professor Snape,” Weasley interjected.

_I do?  Shit._

“Oh dear!” said Slughorn, his face falling comically; but he kept his gaze solely on Draco.  Draco was reminded inescapably of the way the Death Eaters had behaved towards his counterpart; as though his entire existence were meaningless.  “Dear, dear, I was counting on you, Harry! Well, now, I’ll just have to have a word with Severus and explain the situation. I’m sure I’ll be able to persuade him to postpone your detention. Yes, I’ll see you later!”

“Might as well be invisible,” Weasley muttered.  “He’s not going to manage to postpone your detention anyway,” he added, “much as he might pretend he’s got that kind of pull.  Snape doesn’t bend to anybody.  I could hardly believe Dumbledore got him to put it off the first time.”

Dumbledore got him to _postpone_ it?

Merlin’s sky and _stars_ , Potter did get the best of everything didn’t he?

 _Not anymore_ , Draco reminded himself viciously.  _He’s dead._

Together they made their way to the Gryffindor table, Draco doing his best to act as though it were perfectly normal to sit there, all while acting as though he weren't acting at all.  Supervising Quidditch had made Draco ravenous, so he tucked in, ignoring the dusting of dark hair on his knuckles.

“You aren’t taking any treacle tart?” Weasley inquired, sounding shocked.

Draco was reaching for some of the stuff as Dean and Seamus elbowed each other.

“What are ye, Ron, his mum?” Seamus wondered.

“I think it’s nice that everyone here looks out for each other,” said Lovegood staunchly.  “Harry would never forgive himself for missing treacle tart.”

“Luna, what are you even doing here?” Seamus muttered – but not loud enough, Draco noted, for her to actually hear.

Granger joined them, then, squeezing in between Weasley and Lovegood, though she had the sense to look a bit askance at Luna.

“I’m glad you’re here, Harry,” Luna said dreamily, examining the Brussels sprout at the end of her fork with great dedication and from all angles.  She looked up and her pale, colourless eyes pinned Draco.  “I think that the Wrackspurts have been at you again, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it.”

“Oh, er, have they?” Draco replied, and filled his mouth with treacle tart.

_Ugh.  Disgusting._

Whatever.  He swallowed.

“Yes,” she said.  “Pass the broccoli?”  She looked up at Draco again, gaze earnest.  “Crucifers ward off Wrackspurts, you know.”

“Better have some, then,” said Draco with exaggerated intensity, and Ron laughed.

“Harry’s never mocked me before.  Outright like that, I mean,” she observed, and the smile fell off of Draco’s face.

“Sorry?”

Luna shrugged, but she didn’t look pleased.  “It’s all right, you’ll get the hang of it again.  Excuse me, maybe this table wasn’t as friendly as I thought.”  She rose and carried her plate away.

“Well!” Ron exclaimed, staring after her.  “That was… stranger than her usual.”

Hermione snorted.  “Are you sure?”

“Hang on, I’d probably better…” Draco said, and went after Luna, who had exited the Great Hall still carrying her plate. 

He found her a little down the hall, tucked in a tapestry-draped alcove, with only her bright golden ballet slippers sticking out.  She was balancing her plate in her lap.

“Room for two?” he inquired.

She looked up at him.  “Well, all right,” she replied, and scooted to the side.

Draco lowered himself to sit down.

“You needn’t stay,” she said between bites of roast.  “I know you’ve only popped out to see if I’ll tell everyone your secret.”

Draco blinked.

“You don’t even know he likes treacle tart.”  She popped a roasted sprout in her mouth and munched it happily.  “You’d think you know that after all this time.  It’s what he’s eating about half the time you’re glaring at him across the Great Hall.”

Draco considered the many ways to approach this.  He thought, briefly, on how no one took Lovegood very seriously; and yet she’d unmasked him in seconds.  “ _Will_ you tell anybody?”

She considered him.  “You haven’t copied yourself on purpose?”

“No.”

“That’s something, anyway.”  Then she leaned close, radish earrings swinging, gazing into his eyes.  She rocked back on her heels.  “Suppose you’ll do,” she sniffed.  “On a trial basis.”

“Great,” said Draco.  “Why are you hiding back here, anyway?  You could’ve gone to the Ravenclaw table.”

“Oh, there’s an infestation of Nargles there,” Luna said airily, and Draco raised his brows.

“Is that your word for undesirables?” he inquired.

She smiled serenely.  “Nargles are creatures who steal items important to their owner.  They don’t mean to, you see; it’s just that they need them to line their nests.”

“Ah.”  Draco stood, brushing off his trouser-legs.  “Well, this has been… phantasmagoric, Lovegood.”

She beamed.  “Likewise!”

“And you won’t let on to any of the others?”

She mimed zipping her pale lips.  “I can be quite good at keeping a secret.  Say hello to Harry for me, will you?”

The quizzical smile fell off of Draco’s face.  “…Sure.  Sure thing, Lovegood.”

“Luna,” she corrected.  “And Draco,” she said, startling him with the sound of his given name, standing to place both hands on his shoulders, her gaze intense and – however briefly – focussed.

“ _Do_ keep eating your greens.”

 

* * *

 

 

That evening brought news of a raid on Malfoy Manor.  Luckily, it appeared that his father had been forewarned, and nothing had been found.  Of course, it had been newly-promoted Arthur Weasley who’d led the investigation.  The paper crumpled a bit in Draco’s hands.

“Don’t worry, mate, we’ll get him yet,” Weasley said, thumping him on the back, and Draco nearly growled aloud when Robins – the new Chaser – tapped him tentatively on one shoulder. 

“Sorry, Harry, it’s Snape.  He says… no matter how many, er, party invitations?  Uh, _party invitations_ you get.  Er, detention at 8pm, and bring acid-resistant gloves.”

“Lovely,” Draco muttered, then mustered up a sickly smile for Demelza, since it wasn’t her fault.  “Thanks, Robins.”

She offered up an apologetic smile of her own and skittered away.

 

* * *

 

 

Draco would have been more worried about facing Snape if he hadn’t already, when he was a) too panicked to consider the danger of Severus Snape closely and b) presuming this was all a horrifying yet short-term mix-up, prank, or accident.  As it was, he figured if he managed Potter’s blend of dense arrogance in front of Snape, the man would do everything he could manage to avoid interacting with Potter.

Ah, how wrong he was.

“Potter,” said Snape.

“Snape,” Draco imitated.

“I am Professor Snape to you,” Snape growled.

Draco’s lip quirked.  “I see you climbed your way back out of that linguistical conundrum nicely, _Professor_ Snape.”

“It is precisely that sort of dense arrogance,” said Snape, making Draco startle, “that lands you so often into trouble, Mister Potter.”

“I seem to find my way out of it again,” Draco parried.  “Dumb luck, I guess.”

“The only possible explanation,” Snape tartly returned.  “I hope you brought your gloves; you’ll be sorting Flobberworms.”

Draco groaned theatrically.  Probably Potter would’ve simply squared his square jaw, but there was only so much a man could take.  He tugged on the gloves.

“Rotten ones here, fresh ones here,” Snape said, pointing to a bin Charmed to make the undesirable Flobberworms disappear, and a jar for later storage, respectively.  “I expect you to do it by hand.”

“Seriously, Professor?”  Draco had never been made to serve a detention like this one; generally speaking, his professors made him grade first-year essays, cast Cleaning Charms, or organize supply closets.  Nothing so hands-on, filthy, or intentionally demeaning.

“Do not _question_ me, Potter!”

“It’s just,” said Draco, “that I could… _Secundum generis novitate!_ ”

The Flobberworms divided swiftly and accurately, if Draco did say so, himself.

Draco startled at the sound of Snape _throwing_ his Potions texts to the floor in anger and beginning to advance on Draco, who scurried back.  Apparently even the Potter-nudge couldn’t hold him in place where Snape was concerned.

“Who do you think you are, you little ingrate?” Snape growled.  “Do you suppose I was having you sort them because I couldn’t recall the spell?”

“Given who I’m talking to, sir,” Draco began, and it was probably all for the best that Snape interrupted him.

“This is to be a _punishment_ , Mister Potter, not a five-second task any third-year could accomplish!”

“Well, it’s just humiliation, then!” Draco shot back.

Professor Snape’s eye twitched in a way that only Potter had ever managed to elicit in the past.  “And what do you suppose your cheek was in class the other day, but humiliation?” Snape retorted.  “Just like your father, you’re happy dealing out humiliation, aren’t you, Potter?  Bit harder to take it?  Even though it’s only you and me here, whereas the humiliation you visited upon me was in front of a class full of students?”

Huh.  He did have a point, Draco’s higher sensibilities informed him.  Perhaps it wasn’t wise to let the Potter palimpsest dictate his behaviour around Professor Snape; perhaps Draco had best take the reins.

Not that he hadn’t been – he always had the reins.  But the nudges from Potter’s end were (frankly) suicidal where the Potions Master was concerned, so it was important he learn to ignore them in this one, particular case.

“You’re right, sir; sorry,” Draco said, shuffling his feet.  “That was a humiliating thing to say.”  He snuck a look up.  “But funny.”

“Humiliating words are often seen as humorous by those who deal in them.”

_Ouch._

“Yes, sir.  It’s very easy to be clever and harder to be kind.”  Draco recalled some of what the Potions Master had hissed at him when he first arrived in Potter’s body.  “I suppose… I let all the fame get to my head, and I was playing it up a bit for my audience.  I won’t let it happen again.”

Snape was now staring at him as though he’d offered to sort the Flobberworms naked.  “Can it be, after all these years,” Snape sighed, as though the skies had opened and heaven’s light shone on the Potions classroom, “that you’ve finally gained the sense Merlin gave his pet teacup?”

Something told Draco that it wasn’t that Snape believed his answer in the slightest, but that he, as Potter, had made a smidgen of an effort to determine what it was Snape wanted to hear... and said it aloud. 

“That teacup,” said Draco warily.  “All it could do was hum.  Off-key.”

Snape smirked.

“Professor, it’s very easy to be clever and harder to –”

“Fine,” Snape snapped with a wave of his hand – already turning away, too, as though he should like nothing better than to forget Potter’s presence.  “Go and sort my Potions journals and let me know if complex algorithms such as the alphabet perplex you.  Go, before I change my mind.”

 

* * *

 

 

Draco left the classroom later that evening feeling pretty good about himself.  He’d managed to get Snape to eye him with respect, and if that wasn’t a strong step towards allying with Slytherin, he didn’t know what was.

He was so consumed with his success that he almost – _almost_ – missed it: a small Slytherin girl scooting ahead of him, out of bed far past curfew, ducking down a hall with a tiny friend only a step or two behind.

Perhaps it was two eleven-year-old girls determined to explore the Castle after dark, but Draco knew those pigtails well.  It was Crabbe and Goyle, which meant they were still taking Polyjuice, which meant…

Draco strode in their wake, always keeping just out of sight.  They travelled from the dungeons and up and up and up until they reached the Seventh Floor, not far from the Gryffindor Tower entrance.  Draco tucked himself close to Gryffindor and watched as the tiny sentries began their routes, pacing back and forth before the closed Room of Requirement.

Draco edged along the wall and cast a quick _Stupefy!_ with his far more responsive wand, and the first little girl went down.  The second squeaked aloud in a way that would’ve had Draco in stitches if the situation weren’t so dire, and had opened her mouth wide to sound the alarm in earnest when Draco got her, too. 

He pondered casting _Obliviate_ , but he wasn’t confident of his ability in the spell, and Crabbe and Goyle had precious few brain cells to lose.  He prayed that they hadn’t caught sight of his face in the dark hallway and paced irritably before the door thrice before gaining entrance, casting _Lumos_ to find his way forward.

The Room of Hidden Things: everywhere there were items heaped haphazardly, some of them valuable beyond comprehension – after living with his mother for the first eleven years of his life, Draco certainly recognized diamonds, and rubies, and Dark Magical objects – but a great deal of them were just junk, piles on piles of it.  Draco picked his way through it confidently until he heard low cursing in his own voice.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” he growled.

Draco was treated to the rare sight of himself turning to face him.  The strange thing was, it didn’t look a great deal like the _Draco Malfoy_ he thought of as _being_ himself: the young man before him was wiry with recently-lost weight, with a sickly-looking pallor and a faint sheen of sweat across his brow; his sleeves were rolled up and smeared here and there with dust and grime, as though he had been at work for hours.  There was a moment of stark terror on his face that Draco observed almost clinically, before it was subsumed by irritation.

“What are you doing here, _Potter_?” he growled, raising his wand.  “You’re not wanted here.”

“ _You’re_ not wanted here,” Draco parried.  “Or weren’t you listening?  No one needs you to repair the bloody Vanishing Cabinet.  The Death Eaters could’ve gotten in here at any time.”

Malfoy’s own face sneered back at him.  “Did possessing Potter’s body like some damnable poltergeist cause you to absorb his naiveté?  _We could’ve gotten them at any time_ … it was pure theatre, along with everything else about the other night.”  Malfoy’s lip twisted.  “Dumbledore’s comings and goings are mysterious.  So if they want him, they’ll have to get him while he’s _here_.  And if they want to do that, they’ll have to bring an army to storm this place to do it.  And they’ll bring them… through here,” he finished, proudly, pointing at the Cabinet.  He put on an expression of exaggerated thoughtfulness.  “Maybe your brain can’t work so well now it’s in Potter’s head.  What do you think of that theory?  There never was much space up there.”

“You’re not supposed to be doing this anymore,” Draco protested.  “Mother said –”

“Oh, ‘Mother said’, ‘ _Mother said_ ’,” Malfoy hissed.  “I don’t have a mother.  You caught that much, didn’t you?  I’m a free agent.  I’m a _nobody_ , a _nothing_.  I can do as I please, since I don’t exist.”

“So then why are you,” said Draco, completely befuddled.  “I hated the damned thing, I – I never wanted to see it again…”

Malfoy shook his hair out of his eyes, looking exasperated.  “Can you honestly be that dim?  When it comes time to write the histories, they’ll say that I struck the match that ignited a _revolution_.  That – _this_ – is an act of a true Malfoy.”  He turned back to the Cabinet, and his next words were muttered, as though Draco were not even there: “…and then I’ll be the true son, and it’s you who’ll be no one.  _Nothing_.”

“Wow,” said Draco.  “That’s… impressively villainous.  Five stars,” he added, not realizing Weasley’s words had come out of his mouth until they were already in the air and it was impossible to take them back. 

“Sure, Potter, whatever you say,” said Malfoy, whose attention had returned to – was completely subsumed by – the Cabinet once more.  Then, something appeared to occur to him, and he looked up again.  “You won’t stop me.”

“ _Stop_ you,” Draco echoed.  “I couldn’t care less what you do.”

But Malfoy was turning to orient his whole body towards Draco, and he folded his arms over his chest.  “I heard something else at that meeting.  For all they treated me as a House Elf or a piece of furniture, I’ve still ears and eyes.”

Draco winced.

“And that’s that you have a fragment of Potter’s soul inside of you.  What’s that like, anyway?”

Draco’s lips parted, but he was at a loss to explain what it was like.

“When you sleep, do you dream of saving puppies and kittens?  Of uniting the Mudbloods and Muggleborns and Blood Traitors under one, dirty flag?”

“I’m just who I always was,” Draco shot back. 

“I can _see_ it if I squint,” said Malfoy.  “It’s dripping red and gold, isn’t it?”

“And I can see your comical levels of certainty,” Draco scoffed.  “They’re projecting off into the _stratosphere_ –”

But Malfoy was already turning again to the Cabinet, as though compelled; and it was so strange and unseelie to witness, this boy with Draco’s face bending into the Cabinet as another boy would to a lover, losing track of Draco in the room.

“Mother was right: you’re a talking portrait.  You’ve lost all your depth; you can think of only one thing…”

“I’m a Horcrux, not a portrait,” he said, stroking the outside of the Cabinet with one, questing finger.

“Yeah, all right, I’ll leave you two alone,” Draco muttered, backing away.  In truth, he found himself distinctly unsettled.

“Stay out of my way, Potter,” Malfoy said, but it sounded like an afterthought.

“Couldn’t care less,” Draco reiterated, and closed the door behind him.

It wasn’t as though he’d had the slightest inkling how to repair the Cabinet, himself; and this Malfoy appeared to be a faint echo of the real Draco Malfoy, so there was little chance he’d be successful anytime soon.  Draco consoled himself with these thoughts as he moved to Gryffindor Tower.

Besides, it didn’t matter if he _were_ successful, Draco reminded himself staunchly, shaking free a clinging sense of unease.  Finding a way to get the Death Eaters into Hogwarts _en masse_ was Draco’s original goal, after all, and a worthy one.  It could even play to the Dark Lord’s new idea, especially if Draco gave a good showing of himself during the Battle, maybe sustained a superficial injury or two: even more people would flock to his banner that way; he’d be even more respected and revered than before, and indubitably that would lead to earlier and more decisive elections when the time came.

 

* * *

 

 

The following night, he worked his first magic side-by-side with Weasley and Granger, casting personalized wards around the girls’ and boys’ sixth-year dormitories.  The other students watched, silent; a few of the younger years nudged one another awake as Ron and Draco laid the ward foundations down, but they asked no questions, mutely trusting that Harry Potter and his friends had their best interests at heart.

Weasley was steady at his side, and Granger surprisingly intuitive, shoring up gaps as they appeared.  When time for the casting came, the wardcraft sank into the floorboards, ran up the walls, shimmered with protective light, sank into Draco’s bones.

One by one the students yawned and muttered and dragged themselves back to bed, leaving Hermione and Ron and Draco alone in the firelight of the Common Room.  Draco felt strange, transported, and would only later realize that he had not once thought of the effort it took to be Harry Potter the whole evening… that with his newly powerful magic come to hand, the silent support of his House, Ron and Hermione like bulwarks at his side, it had all seemed natural as breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews so far! If you're enjoying this story, please continue to leave your thoughts here; feedback in real-time is part of the reason why I write and post fanfiction. Thanks!


	5. Chapter 5

A week passed in which Draco held his first practice for Gryffindor Quidditch, helped spread the rumour that the D.A. was starting back up again, and did his best to find Pansy Parkinson alone.  Unfortunately, as had always been the case, she seemed surgically attached to his counterpart. 

He finally took his opportunity: when she stuffed all her quills and parchments into her knapsack after Transfigurations, he cast a subtle spell that sent everything spilling out again.  While she cursed, he knelt and helped her pick up her things.

Large dark eyes looked up in surprise, and she blinked.

Draco had never had a real crush on anyone in school except maybe Fleur Delacour.  All the same, if he could have chosen someone to find charming – if one could choose such a thing – he would have chosen Pansy Parkinson.

She was convenient, of course: her family and his family got on.  But she also had an almost impossibly neat pageboy haircut of thick, glossy black hair, a tiny, turned-up nose, and large eyes framed with heavy lashes, coupled with a razor-sharp wit when it peeked out from under her studied girlishness.  Some of that had faded last year with the introduction of Umbridge, when Pansy had seen first-hand just how irritating syrupy sweetness could be.

“Thanks, Potter,” she said, still looking a bit spooked.

“No problem,” Draco said, allowing the Potter palimpsest free reign: _hands in pockets, look unassuming_ , fine.  “Listen, the D.A. – the Defense Association – we’re starting back up again.”

“That’s… nice,” she said, rising and moving for the door.  It didn’t sound like a compliment. 

Draco followed, but not closely; just as he suspected, she paused at the exit, too curious to leave things there.  “And this time we’d like the Slytherins to come,” he added.

That had her attention.  Parkinson swivelled on one heel.  “So what’s your perfectly straightforward reason for inviting Slytherins to your secret duelling club?  Target practice?”

Draco’s lips quirked; he found himself impressed.  Parkinson seemed to have gotten a bit of a backbone over the summer break.  “It’s no secret, this time.  I’ve asked McGonagall for permission, and we can’t bar a House from entry to an official school club.  I think that half the problem anyway, last year, was that the D.A. made the Slytherins feel like outsiders.  It was no wonder,” he began, then stopped.  Saying he understood why the Slytherins had turned to Umbridge might be one step too far for Harry Potter.

“So, you’re inviting Draco as well?  Because he’s the reason you were _turned in_ last time.”

Normally, Draco would be applauding her loyalty.  “Normally, I’d be applauding your loyalty,” Draco said.  “But somehow, I don’t think Malfoy’s interested in doing anything with me.”

“But if he were,” she said.

“If he were, he’d be welcome,” Draco said expansively, because he knew there was zero chance of it.

Parkinson sighed.  “Listen, I’ve got to get to – you know, anyplace else.  But this has been a _lovely_ chat.  Let’s never do it again sometime.”

“You can bring any Slytherin you can convince to come!” Draco added.

She paused again on the threshold, turning.  “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

“As,” said Draco, then caught himself.  He’d been about to say ‘as _Avada_ ’, but that had been a little signal between the two of them.  “A heart attack,” he finished, shocked at his near-lapse.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Parkinson said.  She stared at Draco for another few seconds.  “Yeah, all right,” she said.  “Could work on my Defense, I’m bordering on a Dreadful now.”

“We’re starting up tomorrow night,” Draco said, relieved.

“The other Slytherins will need more time to convince than one night,” she chided.

“I didn’t want to give you time to reconsider,” said Draco, with one of Potter’s patented self-deprecating grins.  “Besides, I have full and utmost faith in your persuasive abilities.”  When her own lips quirked, he thought for a moment she’d take his arm, as she was wont to do, but then she shrugged and exited the classroom on her own. 

“See you at nine?”

She was backing away from him, knapsack clutched in front of her.  “Nine!” she returned, and blew him a kiss.

He was so startled that he wasn’t sure how the Potter palimpsest wanted him to react; but then she laughed, delightedly, and hurried off. 

By staring in silent consternation, he’d already reacted just as she’d known he would.  Draco shook his head and stuck his hands once more in his pockets, strolling down the hallway and whistling.

 

* * *

 

 

“And so I don’t think that we should start with the most vicious curses,” Hermione was saying in a hushed voice as they made their way to the Room.  “It _is_ illegal, of course, to cast some of them; but moreover, I worry we might scare some people away.”

“You’re not worried about them being illegal?” Draco wondered.

“Honestly, Harry!” she exclaimed, pulling ahead with a roll of her eyes.

“Downright scary, she is,” Ron muttered, shaking his head.

Luckily, that meant Granger was in the lead when they reached the Room; she was the one who strode back and forth three times, looking unsurprised when a highly polished oaken door appeared.

Draco felt his lips tug.  Some things at Hogwarts made him recall that sense of wonder that had blossomed when he’d come over in his rowboat at eleven years old.  Granger did not seem to feel any such sentimentality, for she pressed on without another word, reaching for the gleaming brass handle and letting herself inside.

Facing the door and on either side of the long duelling room were three bookcases.  The left and the right were chock full of books.  Draco knew better than to assume they were there for decoration; and sure enough, when he peered more closely, they had titles like _A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions_ and _Attack and Defense Through the Ages: a Detailed Analysis of Duelling Through Time._   The cases that faced the door had various magical, Defense-related objects on display.

There were large silk cushions scattered throughout the room to sit on – or, Draco thought, to be used as safety mats – and a pervasive but diffuse light shone down from the ceiling as though the Room were an ancient library with windows someplace high off; however, no such windows were visible.

“It’s good to be back,” said Weasley, falling onto one of the silken pillows with a satisfied sigh; but an instant later, he straightened.  “Professor McGonagall!”

Draco looked up to see the Deputy Headmistress standing in the doorway.  “Good evening, Mister Potter, Mister Weasley, Miss Granger.”

Weasley was already clambering to his feet to stand at Draco’s elbow; some of that pureblood breeding was impossible to stamp out, or else Weasley wanted to be in a better position to dart away.

“Now, I do suppose you’re old enough to monitor an after-school club without my help,” she said, eyeing them sternly over her spectacles.  “However, I expect you to call me or send a prefect _immediately_ if there are any injuries worse than a scrape or a bruise, and I expect your meetings to break up before curfew.  I hear that you have chosen to invite some Slytherins this year?”

“Yes, Professor,” Granger piped.

“Well.”  She smoothed her robes.  “I do hope you know what you’re doing.  Keep in mind that many of those young men and women who you include tonight may someday face you across a battlefield.”

“And some may need every skill we can teach them, if they’re to know they have options besides the Death Eaters or hunkering down until the War is past,” said Granger, in such an icy and studied manner that Draco imagined it was something she’d prepared to say beforehand.  “And if we aren’t working to heal the rifts in the Wizarding World now, when it matters more than ever before –”

“Peace, Miss Granger!” McGonagall exclaimed.  “We are – however unfortunately – both correct.  I do hope your way turns out to be wisest.”

Hermione shuffled her feet a bit before subsiding – realizing, perhaps, that this was all the concession the Deputy Headmistress would be willing to give.

“Well, then,” McGonagall said.  “Good evening.”

They watched until she disappeared, then heaved simultaneous sighs of relief.

“Merlin, I thought she was going to cancel it,” Weasley huffed.

“ _You_ two stayed awfully quiet,” said Granger.

Draco shoved her shoulder with his own.  “You seemed like you had it handled.”

But then the first student showed up: Ginny Weasley.  “Hullo, Harry!  Just like old times.”

“Before Malfoy ruined it,” Weasley muttered.

“Easy, we’re being Slytherin-friendly!” Hermione hissed.

“We are?” said Ginny.

“We’re trying to bridge the gap or – something,” said Weasley.  “Hermione, why don’t you tell her?  You say it so well.”

From there, students in red-and-gold, blue-and-silver, and even yellow-and-black trickled into the Room of Requirement.  A young boy with a camera around his neck pumped his hand fiercely, leading an even younger boy in who looked enough like him to be his brother; Loony Lovegood waltzed with without making eye contact with anybody.  Weasley and Granger stayed at his side, and by and by the Quidditchers also loafed nearby: girl-Weasley, and Bell, Robins, Peakes, and Coote all claimed silk cushions within arm’s reach. 

He would say this for Gryffindors: they stuck by their own almost so well as Slytherins.

There also seemed to be a core of students Draco recognized as belonging to the original group they’d caught in the Room: Cho Chang was there, speaking earnestly to a Hufflepuff of some stripe.  There was Longbottom – strange to think of Longbottom capable of anything in Defense – and Brown.  Draco was finally beginning to learn the names of all the Gryffindors, first and last, after a few weeks’ exposure. 

But no Slytherins.  His plan depended on them.  Perhaps he should have hogtied Pansy –

Ah!  No.  There she was, with Millicent Bulstrode and Blaise Zabini in tow.

Would wonders never cease?

He nodded to her and watched as Bulstrode and Zabini startled.  Bulstrode whipped her head around to stare at Pansy, who looked smug.

Huh.  They hadn’t _believed her._

That was pretty funny, actually.

“Hello, everyone, and welcome! – or, in some cases, welcome _back_ – to the Defense Association!” Hermione said, and the mutters died down as the attendants turned to face her.

“Don’t you mean _Dumbledore’s Army?_ ” shouted Finnegan.

A spontaneous, rhythmic chaos broke out as all the old members thumped along the wooden floor or the bookcases behind them until Draco raised his hand, and they silenced.

They silenced _completely,_ turning as one to face him, the presumption that he would say something important, motivating, clear in their eyes.  Chang in particular held a world of hope and confidence in her gaze that was almost suffocating; and yet, it was all more than a little addictive, too.  Even Bell was nodding at him encouragingly.

It was only when Ron batted his eyes and fisted his hands under his chin that Draco’s voice broke free of where it had been lodged in his throat.

“We learned a great deal together last year… before we were so rudely interrupted –”

Another round of pounding and applause, interspersed now with ‘ _damned Malfoy_ ’ and a few choice curse words for Umbridge.  Draco held his hand up again.

“The War is coming,” he said.  He licked his lips nervously and looked up to see Granger nodding at him in a way that was somehow both sombre and encouraging.  He swallowed and looked out into the sea of upturned faces.  “The War is coming, and one way or another, all of us will have to fight.”  He found Pansy’s face, sought out the distrustful turn of her lip, the furrow in her brow.  “The content of our blood won’t matter so much as it’s being spilt,” he muttered, but in the rapt silence, the words carried anyway.  Pansy no longer had her arms crossed; they were dangling at her sides.  “In the end, we all must do our best to protect ourselves, and our families.  We should help each other do that.”  The Potter palimpsest _nudged_.  “ _I_ will help you do that.  I will make sure you can survive if it’s within my power.  If there is something I can teach you that might help you survive, I will.  And,” he added, “I hope that if there is something you can teach me…  Well, I hope you’ll do that, too.”  And he stared directly at the Slytherins as he said it.

A curious triumph was bubbling through him like the fizz on a butterbeer.  He turned his attention back to the whole group, before anyone but the Slytherins could notice.

“Hermione is passing around a contract, similar to last year’s,” Draco announced.

Granger held the contract into the air.  “Unlike last year, it won’t bar you from discussing the group with anyone, since we’re no longer an illegal club,” she announced.  “However, it does prevent you from disclosing any secrets you learn here, like another student’s strengths or weaknesses.  No one will be able to disclose which curse took you down the fastest…”

“I’ve seen Edgecombe, wandering around with SNEAK written on her face in spots,” Zabini pointed out.

“I heard she went to see a special curse-breaker in Germany and they couldn’t remove them,” Pansy added, gazing off in a corner of the room as though meeting Hermione’s eye were of no especial importance.

Granger, for her own part, looked distinctly smug before she remembered herself.  “There are consequences for breaking your word,” she said, sternly.  “I do hope you never find out what they are.  If you’re keen to weigh whether those consequences are worth breaking faith, you don’t belong here.”  Proving herself once again the cleverest witch of her age, she added, “I’d think that Slytherins would understand well enough that there are consequences for disloyalty.”

Zabini actually _blushed_ at her words, and blinked as though he’d been hit in the side of the skull with a Bludger; when it came to his turn to sign, he did it without even looking away from Granger.  But then, Pansy did, too, glaring at Draco all the while, and Bulstrode only conceded after both of them put their names down as well.  A few of the younger years snuck out before they were made to sign, which was just as well. 

Once Granger had all the signatures and confirmed that everyone still in the Room had signed their names, she smiled and handed out Galleon pieces, handing half to Ron to speed the process.  “These will let you know when meetings are,” she announced.  “They won’t be posted anywhere, so keep them on you at all times.”

The introductory nonsense had taken a surprisingly long amount of time – so long that Draco wondered if it was worth it to start going over anything at all.

Granger had been all too happy to suggest spells they ought to go over, starting with _Protego_ and _Repelio_ charms.  With Draco’s knowledge of the Dark Arts and Potter’s wand working so well for him, Draco doubted he’d have any trouble with them.  All the same, he’d gone off on the Quidditch pitch before their first, real practice and fired off a few spells.

The wand had responded like a dream, and it made Draco wonder and worry.  Was this an especially powerful wand?  Or was it Potter’s very blood that made him so powerful? 

It was downright unjust that Potter, who had a new-money pureblood and a bastard for parents, managed to be more powerful than Draco, who could trace his line (on both sides) back to the Crusades.  Feeling the power course down his three-quarters-pure arm – crystalline sharp and whitewater strong – felt like watching Granger excel in class.  Like the world was out of joint.

 _But that power’s yours, now_ , Draco thought, firmly.  _As it should be.  And so is she._

Granger was smiling at him happily, and Draco felt his own lips quirk in turn, the Potter palimpsest pulling the curve of his lip from covetous and fiercely glad to somewhere into the realm of rueful.

“All right, let’s line up.  Pair off,” Draco instructed.  And halfway through the remaining time he realized, as he adjusted Boot’s grip on his wand and kicked his stance a little wider, that he needn’t have worried.  There was something about this that was quite like coaching Quidditch after all.  Every action felt instinctive and easy, and everyone was smiling at him.  Even the Slytherins were loosening up, and Draco was treated to the image of Neville Longbottom correcting Pansy’s angle on _Protego_ , a shining vision he felt wouldn’t leave him until his dying days.

And all the while, Granger and Weasley were eyeing him with what looked like a mixture of pride and relief.

He’d been troubling them, he guessed, still.  And here and now they were less troubled.  Perhaps it was that they were preparing for the coming struggles.  Perhaps they felt more confident now, more assured.

But part of Draco – the part that was inclined to be honest with itself – knew it had more to do with the way his cheeks hurt from smiling.  Potter was happy, and it made them glad to see.

That evening, he wrote a full report and sent it off to Malfoy Manor, casting a _Duplicario_ to keep a copy for himself.  It was important, he thought, to keep track of what he’d told whom.  And if he made his words more circumspect than he habitually did with his father, well; there were plenty of Death Eaters in Malfoy Manor, now.  Who knew who’d get their hands on it?

It paid to be cautious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, folks, and don't forget to tip your waiter on the way out!


	6. Chapter 6

Later that week, when Draco lifted the oversized shirt in the air for the third time, Ron cleared his throat meaningfully.

Draco whirled, dropping the shirt back into Potter’s trunk atop an unopened Potions phial and grimacing.

“It’s not going to turn into a ball gown if you stare enough,” Weasley finally offered.

It was as good a guess as any as to why he’d been staring at his own garment for the better part of a quarter-hour – while the autumn sun shone through the high windows at Gryffindor Tower, while the other boys scrambled into their own clothing and scattered, eager to spend the Saturday on fun and relaxation.

The Potter palimpsest parted his lips for him, exhaled on a sigh.  The clothing was humiliating to Draco Malfoy and – somehow – _worse_ than humiliating to Harry Potter.  “I hate it, but somehow I’ve kept it all this time,” he said.  _All these years_ seemed appropriate, given the stretched out shoulders, the hole between the hem and the rest of the garment, the discolouration.  But he couldn’t be sure.

Ron closed Potter’s trunk to perch on it.  “You’ve got the Galleons,” he added, rubbing at the back of his neck.  “There’s nothing wrong with buying yourself some proper-fitting clothing for once,” he added in that gentling-Potter voice he put on sometimes.

“I know that,” said Draco; he did.  He wasn’t sure why Potter didn’t.  “You won’t think I’m getting – too posh?”

Ron scoffed.  “Just because you’re finding some new shirts and trousers doesn’t mean you’ve turned into Draco Malfoy,” he muttered.

“If you’re sure,” said Draco, tongue firmly in cheek.

“Long time coming, mate.  Maybe Hermione can advise, since the both of us have about a pin’s worth on the subject.”

A tide of relief and joyful anticipation swept Draco out to sea, and it was so startling that all he could do to keep the easy smile on his face.  It felt like the Potter remnants were growing stronger, or else – maybe _clearer_ was the better word.  Like Potter had been standing a long way away, and maybe could only communicate via interpretive dance across a mist-laden field; but now, he was standing at Draco’s elbow and whispering in his ear.

Wait.

No.

What an unfortunate image.

“All right, then,” Draco said, and rummaged through Potter’s things until he found a small sack of Galleons that he fondly hoped would cover a few new items.  “Gladrags it is.”

Granger was already curled up by the fire in the Common Room when they finally made their way downstairs, wild hair spilling over the back of the fluffiest Gryffindor stuffed chair, nose in their Potions book.  She clapped it closed and rolled to her feet like an excited puppy.  “Hogsmeade?” she said.

“Breakfast, first.  Then Hogsmeade,” confirmed Weasley, and they were off.

They clattered down the stairs and into the Great Hall.  Due to Draco’s delays, most students were finishing up, but that just meant more space for them.  Draco’s gaze went automatically to the Slytherin table, where Pansy was finishing up a leisurely breakfast; she looked a little hung over.  He quirked a half-smile at her, and she gave him the two-fingered salute in return.

“Charming,” said Hermione, pulling the Potions book from her pocket and setting it on the table.  “So,” she began.  “I was looking through it.”

Draco recognized Potter’s Potions text, the one with all the intriguing scrawls.

“Hermione!” Ron gasped, holding a hand to his chest.  “Did you _steal_ that from Harry?”

“Steal is such an ugly word,” Hermione said.  Then, when they stared, “ _honestly_ , Ron; Harry left it in the Common Room.  I didn’t sneak in like a thief in the night.”

Ron muttered into his breakfast, one hand half-curled around it as though he thought Draco or Hermione might steal it when he wasn’t looking.

Then again, Draco thought, the twins struck him as the sorts who likely _would_.  Perhaps it was ingrained instinct by this point.

“I’m starting to think that this Prince character is… well… a bit _dodgy_ ,” Hermione said.

“Oh, come _on_!” Ron growled.  “Why, because he’s better than you at Potions?”

Granger pinked.  “Welll,” she drawled.  “That isn’t the _only_ reason.”  She turned to Draco.  “You’ve got to see that all these hand-written, _non-Ministry-approved_ spells and such aren’t reliable!”

“Of course they’re not,” Draco muttered, poking at his own eggs.  “Like I’d trust advice from who-knows, written for who-knows-what-reason, with a context I wasn’t sure of.”

Hermione blinked.  “You’ve been using it in Potions for ages.”

“Well, sure.  In Potions,” Draco agreed.  “Because most of the suggestions make _sense_.  But here,” he said, turning to a page.  “Look at this.  _Sectumsempra : for enemies_.  What is it?  What does it do?  For the sort of enemy who steals your quill, or the sort of enemy who’s killed your cat, or the sort of enemy who’s murdered your entire family?  And would this Prince fellow know the difference, or are all enemies the same to him?”

Granger sniffed.  “The lack of specificity implies they are.  It’s just,” she added, “that some of these spells are distinctly Dark.”

“I don’t figure someone who calls himself the Half-Blood Prince’d be a Death Eater,” said Ron.

 _Half-blood Prince,_ Draco thought – after examining the book cover to cover, it was the first he’d heard of the name.  _It must be hidden._

“You can be Dark without being a Death Eater,” Granger said, sensibly.  “Besides, I doubt the Death Eaters care so much about blood purity as they let on.  There aren’t enough true purebloods to found a movement if they were so insistent on it as they seem.  I expect most of them are half-bloods pretending to be pure,” Hermione went on.  “It’s only Muggleborns they hate, they’d be quite happy to let you and Ron join up.”

“What?” said Draco.  “I don’t think –”

“There is no way they’d let me be a Death Eater!” said Ron indignantly, a bit of sausage flying off the fork he was now brandishing at Hermione and sailing across the near-empty Gryffindor Table. “My whole family are blood traitors!  That’s as bad as Muggleborns to Death Eaters!”

“Worse,” said Draco.

“Worse,” confirmed Ron, gesturing with his now-empty fork.

“Well, now that we’ve established you’d make a terrible Death Eater, Ron,” Hermione said gamely.

“What do you mean that there aren’t enough purebloods, anyway?” Draco pressed.  His face felt hot.

“Only that, well..."  Hermione took a deep breath.  "Most pureblooded families, or _supposedly_ pureblooded families do what the Blacks do, and blast undesirables off their family trees.  It doesn’t mean that they don’t _exist_.  And then of course there are all those stories of witches or wizards travelling to other countries and posing as purebloods, and then doing… well, you know.  And what is a pureblood, really, anyway,” she rambled on, “considering that I can match or best easily 90% of the witches and wizards here?  What does purity have to do with it?  What are they even saying is pure?  How is _blood_ pure?”

“Oh, Merlin, you’ve got her started, now,” said Ron.

“Well, Ron,” said Draco.  “You’re the only pureblood here.  Explain it, why don’t you?”

Weasley huffed.  “Well, there’s nothing to explain.  It’s bollocks.  It’s all in how long you’ve married into other Wizarding families.”  He raised his brows.  “I’m not sure what you mean, though, mate – you’re pureblooded as the day is long.  Two, powerful wizard parents –”

“But my mother was Muggleborn,” said Draco, “so that’s three-quarters.”

“That doesn’t,” said Ron, then paused.  “Wait a jot, mate.  Don’t tell me you believe the – the _thing_ about Muggleborns.”

“What?” Hermione wondered.  “What thing?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” said Ron, and shot Draco a look full of such quelling poison that Draco ducked his head, not understanding where he’d misstepped.  “It’s bollocks.  Worse than any saying about dirty blood, Hermione.  Don’t ask.”

“Well.  All right,” she said, sounding a bit subdued.

“Honestly, Hermione.  Just don’t,” said Ron.  “And Harry, don’t repeat things like that!”

“Okay.  Sorry,” Draco said, but he was still mystified.  What was so odd about saying a Muggleborn witch was a halfblood, when everyone knew it was true?  Some days, the inner workings of Weasley and Granger’s brains were still a complete mystery.

 

* * *

 

After managing to get past Filch, who was checking and double-checking everyone’s permission slip and scanning them with the Secrecy Sensor – again – they spilled out the front door, and off into the cold air.  “Looks like a storm,” said Granger, peering up into the sky and slinging her scarf around her neck once more as though it were already snowing and hailing.  “We’d best get what we need and hurry back.”

Draco was inclined to agree.  The weather had turned foul as they ate in the Great Hall, and was only growing fouler as they tramped towards Hogsmeade.  After only a few minutes of travel, hail began to fall in thin, icy sheets.  Draco stuck his hands more deeply into the pockets of Potter’s nice, new, serviceable travel cloak, without any of the wear of his other garments.

Potter made no sense, but Draco supposed that was nothing new.

“If you’re worried about your aunt and uncle taking your things,” Granger said in sudden inspiration, “why don’t you leave them at Hogwarts?  I’m sure Professor Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall would look after them.  You can go home in your old stuff, no one the wiser!”

It was the second hint about Potter’s upbringing that raised a chorus of tiny alarm bells at the back of Draco’s mind; but he was supposed to know it all, wasn’t he?  He couldn’t even flinch in surprise. 

“Hermione!” Ron chided.

“And if it’s embarrassing to ask,” she went on, “I’ll take it all with me.  I’ll lock it in my trunk at home.”

The old Draco Malfoy reared up within him, a petty retort on his tongue – something about the Mudbloods and filth, maybe, getting all over his new things.

But this was Granger, smiling up at him so uncertainly, as though they didn’t have six years of friendship to build on, and the Potter palimpsest won out easily.

“It’s not that,” Draco said – because it couldn’t be that, because he hadn’t even known that Potter’s relations would be so petty as to resent a new jumper, should he purchase one.  “I just – I worry about… er, _image_.”

“Image,” Hermione repeated.  “Are you well, Harry?  Do you have a fever?”

“You _know_ what I mean,” Draco went on.  “I just realized – people have a certain picture of me as.  As, you know.”

Weasley had moved before him so that he had to stop walking or risk collision, and Granger was staring as though he’d lost his mind.

“Never mind.  It’s stupid,” Draco said, and moved to dart around Ron.

“Since when have you cared about image?” Granger pressed.

“Harry.  Mate.  You’re scaring me,” said Weasley.

“Look, all right – let’s not pretend it isn’t important,” Draco growled, hunching his shoulders against the cold.  “I’m supposed to be the bastion of the Light or – or whatever.  It’s stupid, maybe, but I thought.  I’ve looked this way all along, and what if people think I’m, I’m too arrogant or too posh, not one of them –”

“That sounds like Professor Snape talking,” Granger said.  “We all know who you are.  We know you’re,” she said, then paused, fingers opening and closing as though she were literally grasping for the proper word.  “You _deserve_ proper clothes,” she finally said, passionately, “things that fit and aren’t full of holes, and I’ve been wanting to help, _itching_ to help for ages, so _let me!_ ”

“It’s true,” Ron returned confidentially, when he stared helplessly in the other boy’s direction.  “She talked about secretly replacing all your things –”

“Ron!” Hermione retorted, scandalized.

“ – or Transfiguring them –”

“Ron, I’m warning you!”

“ – or starting up a _collection_ –”

“That was in first year!” Granger shrilled, and then she was laughing and swatting at Weasley and for a moment Draco was forgotten entirely.  It was a very pleasant moment, until Granger turned again to face him.  “You mustn’t think we were ashamed,” she said, brown eyes wide and imploring.  “It wasn’t anything like that.”

“It was that I deserve nice things.  Message received,” said Draco.

And suddenly Granger slipped her arm through his in that particular sort of Pansy way, and leaned her weight against him.  “That’s right,” she said.  “So.  Enough talk.  Let’s go get them.”

They trundled along in silence awhile longer before Granger predictably opened her mouth again.

“Besides,” she said.  “Part of why people follow you, Harry, and look up to you is that you don’t care for image at all.”

“But that’s just it,” said Draco.  “If I buy all new things, they’ll think I do.”

“You’re overthinking this by maybe several degrees of insanity, mate,” said Ron.  “New jumper or old, you’re still Harry Potter.”

 

* * *

 

 

Gladrags Wizardwear was a baffling melange of fabric, glittering stones, fastenings and stays, that showed no appreciation for order.  Various dress-moulds stood hither and yon, and enchanted measuring tapes flew from one side of the room to another to help a customer or at the summons of the saleswitch.  This particular brand of chaos was why the Malfoys shopped on Diagon Alley, or not in Britain at all.  At least, Draco reflected, it was warm.

“There in a mo’!” called out the harrassed saleswitch; apparently, thought Draco, Gladrags hadn’t thought to call anyone extra in on the first Hogsmeade weekend of the school year.  More fool, them.  “Oh!” she exclaimed when she finally came into view.  “Mister _Potter_!  Welcome!  So glad you could… join us here.  Today.  Here!  Uh, we have some excellent, very supple fabrics in from –”

“Thank you,” Granger interrupted.  “We know what we’re looking for.”

Granger seemed to have planned this out the way she planned everything else: with a bossy insistence and a ruthless efficiency that, for once, Draco was in a position to appreciate.  She passed him jumpers and tee shirts and trousers that matched what other boys in Gryffindor pulled over their heads and stepped into in the mornings, and he could’ve kissed her.

The saleswitch at Gladrags kept a wary eye on the trio, but it wasn’t the way saleswitches kept an eye on the Malfoys – with a distinct appreciation for the sheer number of Galleons that would soon change hands – but with a combination of avariciousness and hero-worship that was frankly discomfiting.

Then there was the other matter.

Up to now, Draco had avoided staring at Potter’s body any more than he could help.  Part of him still didn’t believe that this was _his_ body, now, and so any self-scrutiny felt distinctly like peeping.  But trying on trousers and jumpers gave him very little choice in the matter.  The point was to ensure everything fit and looked good on Potter, without matching Draco’s traditional pureblooded views on what constituted proper wizarding wear.  It was all… a little straining. 

Weasley was trying to convince him to try on a dark green dragonhide jacket because “it’s _wicked_ ,” but Draco – while he would admit, privately, that the jacket was, in fact, ‘wicked’ – also thought it ostentatious in the extreme, and not in Potter’s style at all.

“Oh, do go on,” said Hermione.  “Let’s see it.”

Draco shrugged the dragonhide jacket over the smooth brown jumper he’d been trying on and blinked.  Suddenly, he looked grownup and debonair and a little wild, with the hair and the eyes, the jumper just softening everything up enough that he didn’t look as though he were playing the bad boy in some teen drama on the Wireless.

Granger issued a low whistle and Weasley actually _clapped_.

“You don’t buy that, mate, and I might just have to hex you,” he said.

Draco blinked at the mirror, a wave of surreality breaking over his head.  He looked at Harry Potter, the way the dragonhide jacket smoothed across his shoulders and there was no millisecond jolt of wrongness, no fuzzy sense of displacement.  The boy in the mirror was him.  Just for a moment, he forgot that it wasn’t his face, his eyes, his mad hair that stuck up at the back. 

He struggled out of the jacket in record time and fiddled with the Galleons in his purse until he found enough to cover everything in Hermione’s hands and everything he was wearing.  He left the jacket on the counter, the ring of the shop’s door echoing in his ears.  At Granger’s and Weasley’s twin incredulous looks, he shrugged and issued a strange, dry little laugh.

“It just wasn’t me,” he said.  “C’mon, let’s go to the Three Broomsticks.”

The streets were mostly empty as they made their way forward; no one was lingering in the terrible weather.  Draco was already thinking quite fondly of Gryffindor Tower – a sentiment he might’ve slapped someone for suggesting he would someday experience – when he caught sight of two men huddled in the cold and the damp, standing still despite the driving rain and icy hail.

“Isn’t that Mundungus Fletcher?” Hermione queried. 

“Oi!  Mundungus!” Weasley shouted, like a common street urchin, so startling the red-haired, bandy-legged man that he dropped the case in his hands.  The case split and its contents spilt out over the icy street.

Weasley hurried over to help, only to freeze with his hand hovering over a small silver goblet.  “Hang on,” he muttered.

Draco saw it at the same time as Weasley did:

The Black crest.

“Are you stealing from the Blacks?” Draco said, drawing his wand, pressing it to the trembling man’s throat.  Fury filled him – _his mother’s things, his family’s things_ – and for once the Potter palimpsest was firmly on his side and why? – well, that didn’t matter, what mattered was that they were united in their wrath.  “Are you stealing, Fletcher?”

“What?  No, no, of course not!” the man exclaimed.

“That’s low, Dung,” said Weasley, surprisingly menacing.  “Stealing from a dead man.”  Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Ron had drawn his own wand.  “And Harry’s the one who inherited his estate – did you know?”

“A man has to make a living!” Mundungus panted.  Up close, it was easy to see his features shift from startled and cornered to calculating.  “How was I t’know it belonged to you, though, Harry?  I thought it was all gone to moulder and rot, or else to Lestrange – and that’s rich, isn’t it?  Better to go to anyone but that _murderer_ –”

“Shut your filthy mouth,” Draco hissed.  “Give it back.  Weasley, does anything else look familiar?”

Ron ducked down and pawed through the things.  “No,” he said.

“All right.  We don’t know who the rest belongs to.  Dung – that’s a very apt nickname, isn’t it?  Don’t let me see you again.”

“But… the _Order_ ,” hissed Mundungus, and for the first time, Hermione Granger gasped aloud.

“Hush!” she commanded, gaze darting about the abandoned street. 

“Don’t let me see you again,” Draco reiterated, and pulled his wand away from Dung’s throat.  The other man Apparated away instantly, then re-appeared.  He ducked down to gather everything else back into the case and disappeared again.

“Damn it,” said a new voice.

Draco turned to find an unfamiliar woman with mousy brown hair staring at the spot where Fletcher had been.  Grey sleet collected atop her head as she stood, unheeding.

“Damn it is right!” Weasley boomed.  “Tonks, what’s happened?”

“He’s been stealing,” she said, needlessly.  “I was hoping for a talk with him, but…”  She sighed, shaking her head.  “Go on inside, we’ll talk later.”

“Later!” Hermione exclaimed, stamping one foot.  “Tonks, this is really quite… he had Sirius’s things!”

“Later,” Tonks reiterated, herding the three of them into the Three Broomsticks, where Draco’s skin began to tingle at the sudden influx of warmth.  He saw Blaise leaning against a pillar, watched his features light up with unseemly excitement when he caught sight of Hermione.

“ ‘Lo, Potter, Weasley.  Granger,” he said, looking her up and down.

Granger viewed him as though he’d contracted a sudden, suppurating disease.  “Zabini?”

“Can I buy you a drink?” said Zabini.

She blinked.  “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, excuse us both!” Ron challenged.

Zabini eyed Weasley.  He then turned to Draco.  “All right, Potter?”

“Er, yes, lovely.  It’s such a pleasant day,” said Draco, gesturing towards the hail, slamming down onto the roof of the Three Broomsticks with more and more force.

“Ginevra asked me to pass this on,” Zabini added, and handed Draco a small note in the guise of shaking his hand.

Draco blinked.  “…Thanks?”

“So, Granger.  That drink?”

Hermione looked torn.  It was clearly still important to her to foster relations with Slytherin because, after a helpless look at Weasley, she nodded.  “Let’s all go,” she insisted.  Blaise led the way to a table, and they seated themselves in a circle.  Weasley slapped the Black goblet onto the table, and Draco’s Slytherin nature flinched a bit away from the openness of the gesture.  But the goblet belonged to Draco, now, and there was nothing in particular secret about their possession of it.  Draco raised his arm to alert Madam Rosmerta and they passed butterbeers all around. 

“Miss Granger’s is on me,” Blaise told Madam Rosmerta.

“Like fun it is,” growled Ron.

Blaise’s smile grew exponentially more charming.  “First round is on me,” he said, adding a few extra coins to the proprietor’s hand.

Weasley grumbled, but Draco could tell he was appeased.  After a moment, Ron and Blaise took up a stilted conversation about the first Defense session, and Weasley was slowly extracting Blaise’s opinion on how it had gone and how the Slytherins had taken it, and Draco wondered when he would stop being grudgingly impressed with Ron Weasley.

Granger looked up and grinned at him, scooting a bit closer.  “He’s a marvel to watch, sometimes,” she said in a low voice.  “I try not to let on, because I’m afraid for the size of his head.  But he is a marvel to watch.”

“He is,” said Draco, because there was no harm in admitting it aloud to Granger, of all people.  “And Blaise?”

“I don’t know anything about him,” Granger sniffed. 

“Except that he likes to buy the first round,” said Draco.

“Except that.”

“So.  You and Ron,” said Draco, because he felt Potter probably would.  It was only when the Potter palimpsest shrieked in his ear that he realized his mistake.

Granger pinked.  “Me and Ron what?”

“Are both here at the Three Broomsticks,” Draco drawled, pulling a sip of butterbeer.  “And have no other relation whatsoever.”  He waved at Bell, who was on her way out into the hail with a friend, but she didn’t seem to notice him. 

“Reckon we ought to go back?  Looks like it’s only getting worse out there,” Weasley said, finishing his last sip in one, long pull, and Draco was forced to agree.  A few of the other Defense band rose as though some sort of signal bell had rung, making their way for the door; Corner was tugging Smith along, and Chang, Brown, and Patil were tugging one another’s scarves and straightening one another’s fuzzy caps in a way that even Draco had to admit was distinctly charming.  Brown tapped the pom-pom at the top of Patil’s red knit cap once it was straight, and Longbottom laughed.

They cut through the slush and the snow, Draco far warmer in his newly-purchased jumper, but still next door to freezing; Granger sent a Warming Charm to everyone within casting distance, and Patil slung her arm companionably around her neck in reply.  Weasley and Zabini were, surprisingly, still engaged in debate on Defense charms.

“I’m only saying, Weasley,” Zabini pressed on, “that the first lesson being _Protego_ is all well and good, but it ought to be practiced under the weight of heavier and harder-hitting curses later on as well, or everyone’s _Protego_ will only be strong enough to repel the simple spells they know now.”

“And I’m not disagreeing,” said Weasley, with the distinct, aggrieved air of someone who was about to disagree.  “I’m just wondering how we’re going to get around casting Unforgivables or –”  He paused, frowning.  “Or…”  He turned.  “Hey.  Zabini, do you hear that?”

“Everyone, everyone, shut up!” Patil shouted, and their rambling group fell silent.

A distant wail emerged from the sleet-glazed air in front of them.  The wail rose into a shriek, an _ah!ah!ah!_ that rang with the unmistakable sincerity of the terror-struck.

 _FORWARD!_ the Potter palimpsest urged, and before Draco knew he was going to obey, his legs were moving and then he’d broken out into a run.  His heart was pounding high in his throat, his wand was already in his hand, and the rest of the D.A. was fanning out behind him as though they’d drilled for this very thing.

A figure emerged in swatches and swaths, the hail reluctantly relinquishing the scene: Katie Bell’s friend was the one who was screaming, and for an instant, Draco thought she’d been cursed; then, he followed her gaze up, and up.

Bell was hanging mid-air like some kind of Crucifixed idol, arms spread wide, face upturned in a parody of ecstasy; but her features were blank as a white page, and nearly as pale.  There was something so empty in her face that Draco had a thought that obliterated all others – _she’s dead_ – before her lashes fluttered and she blinked her eyes open.

Then, she began to scream, shrieks louder than the calls of her friend, shrieks so consumed with agony that they prompted an answering shriek from several of the D.A..

“ _Finite!”_ Granger cast, and “ _Finite! Finite!_ ” came two answering calls – Longbottom and Weasley, Draco noted with a side-sliver of his tactician’s brain – but nothing happened.  Bell kept shrieking and so did her friend, although Draco could hear words, now:

“The necklace!  The necklace!” Bell’s friend was moaning, over and over.

“ _Accio necklace!_ ” Draco shouted, and a thin chain broke free of Bell’s clenched hand.  He yanked the cap from Patil’s head and caught the blasted thing in the fabric.

Katie dropped like a stone, and Granger was there already when others were holding back, as though the curse affecting Katie were somehow contagious, and it was only Granger’s look of blistering scorn that summoned Zabini to her side.  Together, they turned Katie over.  She was shuddering, juddering against the snow as though from the aftershocks of electrocution, but her gaze latched onto Hermione’s and she seemed to recognize her.  She opened her mouth a few times but only nonsense-syllables emerged, her eyes bulging with horror each time she tried, until Hermione said, “shhhh.  Shh, Katie.  It’s going to be all right.”  She looked up.  “Blaise, go for help.  _Run_.”

And Zabini dashed off without another word.  Draco looked after his retreating figure, and then opened the red knit cap to peer at the contents, bobble weaving surreally. 

The opal necklace.  _Claimed the lives of nineteen Muggles to date_ , he remembered reading.

He remembered _laughing_ a little, under his breath.

The world was tilting.

“ _Accio cap!_ ” Weasley shouted, and directed it straight into the snow.  “Harry.  _Harry._   If there was a time for image to matter…”

Draco drew on the Potter palimpsest.  He could not be Draco Malfoy right now.

He refused.

“It’s a cursed necklace,” he said, clearly.  “It was at Borgin and Burkes, I remember it.”

“When you were following Malfoy,” said Ron, and had the sense to scan for Slytherins; but Granger had done the right thing and sent the only Slytherin away.

The only one she knew about.

“When – when I was following Malfoy, yeah,” he replied, blinking hail from his lashes.  “When he was looking at the Vanishing Cabinet, he must’ve – bought the necklace, he –”

“He isn’t here,” said Longbottom.

Draco looked up.

“He was in detentions with McGonagall,” Longbottom supplied.  “He got in some serious trouble, remember?  When –”

“That really doesn’t matter,” Draco said.  “It could be he asked someone to do it, and planned on Obliviating them later.  He could’ve cast the Imperius –”

“And anyone could’ve bought it at Borgin and Burkes!” Hermione exclaimed.  She was holding Katie’s hands in her own, chafing them to keep them warm.

Draco _growled_ at her.  Of all the times to defend Draco Malfoy!

“Healing spells?” said Smith.

Draco blinked, to see that the D.A. was still standing around, looking uncertain.  Patil, Longbottom, Chang, Brown, Corner, and Smith all present and accounted for.

“Not until we know more,” Granger said.  “Some curses are designed to worsen if you try to break them.  It’s a good sign that the worst of it seems over, at least…” 

Patil knelt on Katie’s other side.  “Hey, Katie,” she said.  “Does it hurt very badly?”

“Why are you asking that?” Granger hissed.  “We can’t do a thing, even if it does.”

Blaise slid into view, Professor Snape trailing in his wake, somehow moving just as fast as Blaise without once seeming to break into a run.  He took in Katie, still twitching, with a swift sweep of his gaze.  Weasley scooped Patil’s cap in hand and offered it to Snape, wordless.

Professor Snape peered into the cap.  When he caught sight of the necklace within, his face went even blanker than his usual smoothness, and he cast multiple protective charms before settling the necklace in his cloak pocket.  Then, he approached Katie.  “Get back,” he ordered.  “Zabini, return the others to the Castle immediately.  Granger, Weasley, Potter, Sorensen – you stay.”

Blaise didn’t look pleased to be ordered straight back to the Castle, but he nodded at his Head of House and began herding the other students.  They protested, some vocally, but shuffled on.  All the while, Snape cast feverishly, wand dancing up and down over Bell’s body.  At length, Katie sighed, and something in her frame unclenched.  Her body ceased jolting, finally, and she gazed at Professor Snape in mute thankfulness.

“Please, sir, she was having trouble speaking clearly,” said Granger, quiet.

Snape didn’t say anything, but he pressed the tip of his wand to her throat.  Weasley startled at Draco’s side, as though he would like to have tackled Snape for the presumption, but Katie held still, beyond a faint tremble that might have been shock, or spell damage, or cold.  Snape peered down at her.  “You may never recover your ability to speak.  Do you understand?”

Bell nodded, once, and tears gathered in her eyes to spill down her cheeks.

Her friend – Sorenson – collapsed over her and wept into her shoulder, stroking her hair.

Snape turned to the three of them.

“Well,” he said.  “Let us get Miss Bell out of the cold.”  He cast _Mobilicorpus_ , and Katie screamed and let loose a string of babble.

“Please!” Sorensen shouted, tugging her down.  “Sir, the cursed necklace levitated her – she doesn’t like it – please!”

Snape sighed as though it were all terrible beyond the reckoning of it, but he gestured and Bell floated towards him.  He cast a Featherlight charm instead, and she settled into his arms like a very distressed party balloon.  “Hush, now, Miss Bell,” he ordered, and her latest scream dissolved into a hitched hiccough.  She blinked up at him in abject surprise.  “Yes,” Professor Snape said, in the same, calming voice.  “I, too, am beyond amazement that we find ourselves in this predicament.  Though there is always an up side.  Slytherin now has a chance at the Quidditch Cup.”

Draco might have murdered Snape with his bare hands, except that Katie stared at him for a moment and then said, “ha!” – distinctly.

Snape muttered something that sounded quietly approving in turn.  He gripped Katie more firmly and strode off, the four students on his heels.  Granger took up calming Sorenson – who was apparently also called Leanne – by inviting her to the Defense Association meetings, talking about how important it was to be prepared.  Sorenson was nodding and looking pretty keen, which was only understandable: her friend had been cursed, and all she’d known to do was shriek for help.

“She got it at the Three Broomsticks, but she looked all funny,” Sorensen was saying.  “Oh – oh, no… I’ll bet it was the Imperius Curse!  She said she had to bring it to someone at the Castle; she said it over and over again…”  And she dissolved once more into tears, with Hermione patting her on the shoulder.

Snape continued muttering to Bell, who occasionally shook her head or nodded, from what Draco could see.

“All right?” said Weasley, at his shoulder.  “For a minute, I thought you were going to be sick.”

On stories on the Wireless, people often threw up when they had seen something terrible.  Draco had understood throwing up on, say, smelling the scent of something truly rotten and disgusting.  It was a reflex, and couldn’t be helped, like vomiting from the stomach flu.  But until now, he’d never believed there was such a thing as _visceral horror_.  He’d thought it a literary device from the Victorian era along with fainting couches and dying of lovesickness.

But the image of Katie, head tipped back and dark hair whipping in the sleet looking almost artistically posed kept flashing through his brain.  It suddenly occurred to him that the necklace had been made for an ex-lover; no one else would want to force a victim into angelic repose before making her scream.

Harry Potter couldn’t be seen throwing up after an attack on a student.  It was the only thing that kept him from wandering off to a convenient bush.

When Draco next became aware of his surroundings, they were descending to the dungeons.  It only occurred to him that Snape had them all alone and that no one knew where they were once they were already ensconced in Snape’s office and the doors were warded. 

Draco cursed himself roundly, but it looked that, at least at first, Snape was more interested in ensuring Katie remained stable.  He set her down on a settee, then moved to an elaborately-carved Potions cabinet with a tiny brass plaque.  He gave potion after potion to Katie to swallow with uncharacteristic gentleness.  Katie looked calmer and more centred, and her lashes were fluttering as though she were thinking of falling to sleep.  Then, Snape rounded on the four of them.

Sorensen quailed.

“ _What.  Happened?_ ” he growled.  “Sorensen!”

The poor girl babbled the story from beginning to end, starting with Katie returning from the restroom with a package and insisting they return to the Castle to deliver it.  She threw in her supposition that Bell had been Imperiused.

“By someone at the Three Broomsticks,” Snape muttered, pacing.  “Sorensen, I want you to think, very carefully, of your time at the Three Broomsticks, right before Katie left.  Close your eyes, if that helps.”

Leanne nodded and closed her eyes, brow furrowed as she focussed.  Snape pressed his wand to her temple, and Hermione made a tiny, abortive sound of dismay; but Snape didn’t cast Obliviate; instead, he withdrew a small, wriggling silver thread from Sorenson’s mind, and nodded.  “Well done, Sorensen.  Five points to Ravenclaw.  Go to Madam Pomfrey and ask for a Calming Draught.  Wait for me there.”

“Yes, sir.  Thank you,” she said, and withdrew after one, last look at the slumbering Katie.

“Do you have a Pensieve, sir?” Granger inquired politely, and Snape’s gaze darted over to Draco.  If Draco didn’t know any better, he would say that Snape looked… _surprised._ And maybe gratified.

“Clearly I do, Miss Granger,” he growled, out of proportion with the comment, which only reinforced Draco’s impression that the other man had been somehow knocked out of joint by the query.

He moved the memory to his Pensieve and placed it into the bowl, presumably to examine later.  Snape asked a few more questions, and Draco was peripherally aware that Granger and Weasley were answering them; but he could still see Katie, pale, hair still damp and icy and wind-tangled, blue under the eyes, every time he blinked.

Bell’s breathing hitched; Draco saw that there were marks blossoming around her throat, as though the curse had a go at strangling her.  The little card that had sat in front of the opal necklace strobed through his thoughts: _Claimed the lives of nineteen Muggles to date, Claimed the lives of nineteen Muggles to date, Claimed the lives of nineteen Muggles to date –_ coupled with the sound of his own, light chuckle, _nineteen, how amusing_ –

“It was Malfoy,” Draco blurted.

Granger _tsked_ and Weasley actually cursed aloud.

“Five points from Gryffindor for profanity,” said Snape, absently.  “Mister Potter, do you have proof of this rather audacious claim?  Or is it merely that Mister Malfoy exists and happens to be Slytherin that has managed to convince you?”

“He was in Borgin and Burkes,” Draco said.  “He was looking at the necklace –”

“I went into Borgin and Burkes right after Malfoy, and the necklace was still there,” said Granger.

“Would you stop _defending_ him?” Draco shouted.  “You keep _doing_ it, it’s _ridiculous_.  He broke my nose at the start of term, and you’re talking like it’s an _intellectual conundrum_ whether or not he might hurt a student!”

“Mate, we’re not defending Malfoy to you,” Weasley said, in the kind of cautious voice one might use to speak to a patient on the Janus Thickey ward.  “It’s just, well – you heard Neville.  Malfoy wasn’t even at Hogsmeade; he had detention with McGonagall.”

“So what?” Draco shot back.  “He could’ve easily gotten someone else to do it!  In fact, that’s him all over!  He’d never want to hurt somebody where he could see it up close.”  Draco pressed his lips together firmly.  He felt wild, unhinged, and he was only now beginning to realize what it was that he’d been saying.  Snape’s offices were blurring and tilting, and only resolved when Draco squinched his eyes shut and breathed carefully through his nose.

“Malfoy broke your nose up close and personal,” said Ron,  “and Muggle style, with his _foot_.  Seems to me he likes up close just fine.”

“Just because you don’t like someone doesn’t mean,” said Hermione.  She looked up at Professor Snape.  “We’ve told you all we know, sir.  I’m sorry we couldn’t help out more.  But maybe we should go.”

Snape eyed the three of them contemplatively.  “It is miraculous, Mister Potter, how you and your friends always seem to be at the centre of some sort of dramatic catastrophe.”

“Yes, sir, it’s a miracle,” said Draco, fiercely.  “It’s a miracle Malfoy hasn’t been expelled by now.  Maybe it’s that you and his father like the same kind of costume parties –”

“Oh, _mate_ ,” Ron breathed, and jerked Draco backward.  “Sorry, Professor, he’s not in his right mind!”

“Perhaps,” said Snape slowly, “if you’d come to his head of House with the fact that he’d curb-stomped a student’s nose, he might have been – at the very least! – suspended!  But no, Mister Potter must soldier on himself, without help.”

 _Oh_.  Draco blinked.  “He never told anyone…?”

“Good night, Professor!” Hermione squeaked.  “Thank you ever so much for all your help and quick thinking!”  She took Draco’s other arm and helped Ron tug.  “Merlin’s _sake_ , Harry!” she said, and the three tumbled outside and into the hallway.

“What were you thinking, saying all that to Snape?” Ron chided.  “That was downright suicidal!  Lucky he was so shocked he didn’t have time to take points.”

“Points?” Draco echoed.  “Malfoy almost killed Katie tonight because he was trying to get at –”

“Yes!” Granger growled.  “Yes, _obviously_ it’s one of the young Death Eaters who’s doing it; but you didn’t need to shout it at Professor Snape!”

Ron and Draco turned to stare.

She cleared her throat and folded her hands before her, as though she were about to recite at the front of the class.  “If I were trying to get a deadly magical object into Hogwarts without anyone noticing, I’d compel another student to cast Imperius on Filch, since he’s the one keeping Dark objects out of Hogwarts, scanning everything...  And who would Filch turn a Dark object over to?  Dumbledore.”

“What?” said Ron.

“ _Dumbledore_ ,” said Granger, excitedly.  “No, no, listen!  We’ve – we’ve been thinking, it’s clear that the Death Eaters have been trying to replace important people at the Ministry, some with Imperius and some by simply getting them out of the picture, and this, this fits!  If Dumbledore were to be _killed_ , they’d set up a Headmaster more sympathetic to the Death Eaters.  And who do you suppose that would be?”

“Snape,” breathed Ron.

She pointed.  “Exactly.  Snape.  Whether or not he’s really on our side, the Death Eaters think he’s on theirs.  So it makes sense, given their overall strategy, that they’d aim to replace Dumbledore as Headmaster.”  She glared at Draco.  “And presuming he _is_ on their side, perhaps we shouldn’t have made it so clear we were onto him!”

Now that Bell was out of his sight, Draco felt as though he were coming back to himself, a little. 

Draco had known war would mean casualties.  He’d known people would be hurt.

He’d known that sometimes, he’d be the one hurting them.

But he hadn’t thought of it being Bell, or even _anyone_ in particular, except for Potter.  He’d enjoyed the idea of besting Potter, Potter begging, Potter at his mercy. 

But Weasley?  Granger?

Ginny?  Cho?

He pictured all those upturned faces in the D.A. and his stomach churned again.

This was all wrong.  This wasn’t how it was supposed to have gone.

But that was a _feeling_ : a low, unsettled sinking in his heart, a twinge at his breastbone, a tightness in his chest.  In truth, it had gone exactly as he’d initially planned it, back in his own body, certain in himself.  He’d known that it was possible that the nameless, faceless student he intended on using to carry the necklace, or Filch, would die instead.  Part of him had considered that other life an acceptable risk; the rest had been so assured things would fall his way, that he had not been able to fully envision failure or its consequences. 

Only, this wasn’t how he was supposed to _feel_ at his near-success.

And that triggered a flash of memory:

Draco saw himself standing in the mirror, looking / feeling / _being_ Harry Potter.

It had to be the Potter palimpsest guiding his feelings, his reactions.  Up until now, he’d let it, he’d let it dictate and move him because he _had to_.  Of course he felt terrible for Bell, responsible, _culpable,_  because Potter would.  He just needed to understand that, to keep it in mind: that what he must do, and how he felt about doing it were two completely different matters.

That they were from two, completely different _people_.

“ – that Snape _knows_ he’s to replace Dumbledore,” Granger was whispering furiously.  “We still don’t know he’s on our _side_ , Ron, but we don’t know he _isn’t,_ either…”

“Y’know what else speaks to it being one of the young ‘uns?” said Weasley, herding the pair of them forward.  “Not that well planned, was it?”

“I don’t know that now’s the time to be critiquing _technique_ , Ron,” said Hermione.  “We should feel lucky it was so poorly planned.” 

“Leanne said Katie was only acting funny after she’d reached the Three Broomsticks,” Ron said.  “No need for a student to enchant a second student – why not just get the first student to do the job? – so probably someone from the village was enchanted, first.  So that’s a villager – to Katie – to Filch, Hermione, if you’re right – to Dumbledore.  That’s at least four places something might go wrong.”

“Well, Draco Malfoy’s a bit of an idiot,” said Draco, with full acceptance of the inherent irony.

Neither Ron nor Hermione answered him.

“A lot of the D.A. was there,” Hermione noted.  “Think we should take a few minutes and once we know what we intend to say, call an emergency session.”

Draco nodded, although he would’ve liked to go off after Malfoy and demand answers straightaway.  Although perhaps he should take a page out of Granger’s books and think a few minutes on what he would say.  Chide the other boy for his sloppy work?  Pretend to congratulate him?  Cast _Avada kedavra_ and cut him into tiny pieces for the Giant Squid to feast on?

The Potter palimpsest flexed at this last thought, with approving rage.

Hermione cast the Protean Charm on her Galleon with a time an hour hence, and Weasley slung an arm around his shoulder.

Draco flinched.

“C’mon, mate, let’s get you cooled down someplace quiet,” Ron muttered, and Draco, feeling wrung out and weirdly touched, nearly burst into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, time to weigh in, you lurkers!
> 
> MAN do I ever wanna talk about this chapter! Let me know what you think. :D
> 
> And if you want to know what happens next, don't forget to bookmark!


	7. Chapter 7

News spread quickly through the Defense Association; the students trickled into the Room of Requirement with sombre faces and a few were teary-eyed.  Hermione ticked their names off of the contract as they arrived: Hannah Abbott, Lavender Brown,  Susan Bones, Terry Boot, Cho Chang, Michael Corner, Colin Creevey and his brother Dennis, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Seamus Finnigan, Anthony Goldstein, Angelina Johnson, Lee Jordan, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Ernie Macmillan, the Patils, Zacharias Smith, Alicia Spinnet, Dean Thomas, Ginny Weasley.  Draco let out a breath of relief when he saw the three Slytherins trickle in at the last minute, and nodded at Blaise in transparent relief before he thought better of it.

Zabini tossed a look of triumph at Granger and then transferred that same look to Weasley, though it seemed to Draco that his triumph took on a subtly different cast. 

Weasley shook Blaise’s hand as he passed through the door, clapping his other shoulder as he leaned close to say something.  The flicker of shock across Zabini’s face at the warm greeting ignited a smug, proprietary warmth in Draco’s chest.

“What _happened_?” Pansy demanded, lingering by Draco as the other students filed past.  “Zabini’s been regaling us with tales of his brilliant heroism.”

“He’s not wrong,” Weasley said, thrusting hands in his pockets and glancing at Hermione as though determined to prove he was the bigger man.

“You’ll hear the whole thing in – _Tempus!_ – five more minutes,” Hermione said shortly.  “What?” she demanded once Pansy had rolled her eyes and elbowed her way into the Room.  “I don’t like the way she stares at you, Harry.  Like she's looking to carve a chunk out of you.”

“Right now I don’t like the way anybody’s looking at anybody,” Ron muttered.  “Right now, on my hit list?  People with eyes.”

Draco offered up a weak smile.

There were more people in the Room than Draco remembered from the first Defense session, over thirty all together – including two of Ginny Weasley’s friends; Leanne Sorensen; and a younger Slytherin with pale hair who was sitting alone until the older Slytherins clustered around her, though they did not exchange greetings.  Granger had to call new members to her and ask them to sign the magical contract before they could continue.  Unlike the meeting earlier in the week, no one hesitated or slipped out to avoid adding her name.  Weasley stayed standing by Draco, but they both stepped back once Hermione rose, ceding her the floor.

Hermione reported what had happened in Hogsmeade down to mentioning how ‘Harry’ had waved at Katie in the Three Broomsticks and she hadn’t responded.  She described the curse in detail, and had the room hanging on her every word.  Part of Draco knew he’d given up an opportunity – Granger had every eye on her, and the DA members learned forward on their silk cushions – some of the girls were gripping each other’s hands for courage – but he still wasn’t sure what might come out if he tried to speak.  Granger did the right thing, as she always did – meticulously, unthinkingly – highlighting how she, Longbottom, and Weasley had first tried _Finite incantatem_ ; how Draco had Summoned the Necklace, catching it in Parvati’s cap; how Blaise had run for Snape, and how Snape had countered the Curse.

“We think it’s pretty clear now that Katie was under the Imperius Curse,” Granger said, and nodded at Draco.

Draco folded his arms and nodded back; they waited out the shocked horror that swept through the assemblage.

“Who would do that?” Parvati Patil shouted. 

“Remember,” said Granger, “that you’re forbidden from repeating any weaknesses you learn here.  Please don’t do it unthinkingly.  But – there’s nothing to say you can’t act on the information we’re about to give you to help yourselves, your families, and each other.”  And she nodded again to Draco, and –

Oh.  She thought this part would mean more, coming from him.

“He Who Must Not Be Named,” Draco said.  “We believe he’s replacing high-powered people in the Ministry – and elsewhere – with his own people.”

A shocked silence fell.

“But – Katie wasn’t important,” Sorensen said.  “I mean,” she added, insistently.  “She was important to _us_.  But she wasn’t a Ministry official, or anything.”

“We believe she was meant to take the necklace to Dumbledore,” Weasley said.

Draco felt as though the words had sucked all the air from the room.  Nobody spoke, nobody took a breath.

“The Death Eaters have started to use the Imperius Curse more freely,” Granger went on.  “That means we must learn to throw it off.”  At the low murmur which rose, she pressed on, raising her voice slightly.  “We suspected it should come to this earlier in the year,” she said.  “We just.  We didn’t know it would be so soon.”  She pressed her hands together under her chin.  “It was my fault.  My squeamishness.  If we’d taught resisting Imperius at the first D.A. meeting, like Harry suggested, Katie might not be in the Hospital Wing right now.”

“But how will we learn to defend against it?” Longbottom asked.  “Casting it is illegal…”

“Unforgivables are punishable by up to four years in Azkaban,” Smith added.  “ _Per_ casting.”  Draco recalled Smith had a few relatives who were Aurors and members of the magical government.

“That’s why I’m going to be the first to volunteer to learn how,” Granger said, and Ron whipped around to stare at her.  “Only a few of us need take the risk.”

“We didn’t talk about this –”

“Nonsense,” said Hermione, firmly.  “I can’t ask anyone to do something I wouldn’t be willing to do, myself.”

“Why, when the Slytherins probably already know how?” said Ron.  He was wild-eyed, blindsided by Hermione’s fervor and not liking it one bit.  “If the Slytherins want to help so much, why not let them do it?  Last time, it was Slytherin that turned us in –”

“And have you turn all of _us_ in, at that inevitable moment when you land us in trouble?” Pansy called.  “What do you take us for?”

Zabini stood.  “I’ll help, provided Granger does.”

Pansy tugged at his trouser leg and hissed something inaudible.

“Let the Slytherins pay their way,” he said, firmly, and stared at Ron in challenge.

A sussurus of muttering and the rasp of clothing against silk rose up as the other members of the D.A. shifted in their seats.

“Okay,” said Longbottom.  “I’ll partner Zabini.  If he doesn’t mind.”

A flicker of emotion crossed Zabini’s features, and Bulstrode clapped Zabini on the thigh so forcefully he staggered.

“Sorry, but I can’t cast the curse,” Bulstrode said.

“Neither can I,” Pansy said, to Draco’s surprise.  She swallowed.  “But I’ll try and help so long as someone from Gryffindor does, too,” she added, looking up at Blaise poisonously.  It was clear that she couldn’t be the only Slytherin not to make a show of good faith.

“Very well,” said Draco.  “Zabini, Granger, Parkinson, and myself, along with anyone else willing to make the sacrifice.  We’ll confer on the Curse tonight, and we’ll hold lessons on resisting –”

“Now,” said Hermione.

“ _Hermione_ ,” Ron protested.  He clapped her on the upper arm as though to lead her away to discuss it in private, but she huffed and jerked her arm away.  “Dark magic _does_ things to you.”

“Enough,” said Hermione, loud enough for everyone to hear.  “Didn’t you just hear Pansy say she didn’t know it but she’d be happy to learn – for us?  And I note you don’t have any grand objections pointed Harry’s way.”

“That’s because you’re the one who said ‘let’s do it straightaway!’” Ron protested.  “I thought I’d have time to convince you two that you were nutters!”

Hermione kept her own tone loud enough for everyone.  “Katie didn’t have the luxury of waiting,” she said, and that brought Ron up short.

For a moment, Draco thought Ron would offer to help.  It would be like him, something told him.  Like Ron – and Hermione, for that matter – to wildly flail against Potter’s latest madness – and like them both to throw themselves wholeheartedly behind the very venture they’d protested, once they were convinced it was necessary.

But then Weasley was shaking his head.  “I’ll agree to go under,” he said, “if you’re the one casting, Hermione.  But I can’t – I can’t do it to other people.”

“All right,” Hermione said, and squeezed his arm.  “All right, Ron.”  She lifted her chin, clear-eyed gaze taking in the whole assemblage.  “That goes for everybody.  Only a few people need to learn to cast it; the rest of you need to know how to defend against it.”

Draco nodded in what he hoped was a supportive way, and he, Zabini, Granger, and Pansy gathered in a knot.  Draco pretended he had never cast the Imperius Curse before; listened to Zabini describe the wand motion and intent.

“Like all strong magic, it depends heavily on the will of the caster,” Blaise said, dark eyes flashing.  “You really have to want to control and gain power over the victim, at least in the moment.”  He silently demonstrated the wand motion, wordless, his blackthorn wand tracing the air in a tight circle over his own head, arcing to point to the victim of the curse, and then flicking towards the caster.  It was complex enough that Granger and Pansy had to stand alongside him rather than in a circle to properly mimic the motion.

Draco knew that it wasn’t the motion itself that was complex but the sentiment behind it.  Still, it was hard to believe it was going to take them less than five minutes to teach the right stance and wand motions to cast an Unforgivable.

“Remember,” Zabini said.  “It’s all about power and control.  Everyone here wants power, even you, Granger.  The point is to make it feel true, even if this is practice… so focus on what you want power _for._   What it is you would use infinite power to do, if you were to have it?”

“I imagine, Potter, that will mean focusing on uniting the Wizarding World,” Pansy said, “or winning the Quidditch World Cup.  Or getting Snape not to take points in Defense.  Granger, I’ll assume it’s the power to make anyone in the world to instantly relinquish their library to you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t reply.  “All right,” she said.  “Ron?”

Ron rose from his silk cushion and stood.

Hermione ducked her chin and eyed him.  He swallowed and nodded, clenching and unclenching his hands.

Hermione cast perfectly, of course, wand arcing just so.  “ _Imperio_!”

Weasley’s eyes went a little blank.

“Come here,” she ordered.

He did, moving like a sleepwalker.

“Behave normally,” she ordered, and he blinked.

The cobwebs left his gaze.  He stood more naturally.  “Hey, Hermione,” he said – perfectly clearly.

Hermione’s lips pursed in a displeased moue.  Draco supposed she’d been hoping it wasn’t so easy.  “Hop on one foot.”

He did – without question, without hesitation.

“ _Finite incantatem_ ,” she said, and – well, nothing happened but that he stopped leaping and repeated, “Hey, Hermione,” in such a way that his fondness for her was as transparent as ever.

There was no way of telling an enchanted Ron apart from an unenchanted one.

The demonstration instantly sobered the Defense Association.

“Moody – er, Barty Crouch, Junior – said that we had to receive commands we really didn’t want to do, in order to overcome the curse,” said Longbottom.

Draco shook his head.  “Someone experienced in the Imperius Curse would know that already, don’t you think?  They’d give you innocuous orders at first, until they acclimated you to giving in.  Then they’d ask you to do something you never would on your own, just to make sure you’d do it, all before they even asked what they wanted of you.”

That was how his father had used the curse on him.

“That means you have to be prepared to resist even ordinary suggestions,” Draco went on, watching the Creeveys gawp.  He was pleased to note that the young Slytherin girl had her chin hitched high and kept her gaze steady on Draco.  “You have to know what the Imperius Curse feels like so that you can recognize it, get to know it, know when it’s settling in, and overturn it before that happens.  Watch,” he ordered.  “Zabini, cast it on me.”

Blaise approached and waited for Draco’s nod.  “ _Imperio!_ ”

A warm lassitude seeped into Draco’s bones.  He was tired – so, so tired of being Harry Potter.  He wanted to lie down and give in so badly that he felt it like a pain in his breastbone; he clutched the fabric over his heart. 

_Sing Weasley is Our King_ , said a voice – Blaise’s, Draco supposed, though caring seemed a long way off.

_Sing Weasley is Our King_ , the voice repeated – insistent, echoing, inescapable.  _Go on, take Weasley down a peg. You know you want to._

He didn’t.

The reasons why not were just out of reach.  Draco’s brain felt empty of worry, but he knew there _were_ reasons he shouldn’t take the mickey out of Weasley, and a separate set of reasons why he didn’t really _want_ to.  He just couldn’t… access them right now.

_Come on… Weasley is Our King… you know the words, don’t you?_

“Of course,” said Draco.

_Then sing, Potter –_

_How silly_ , Draco thought.  _These aren’t even my orders – they’re meant for someone else._

And so the compulsion snapped.  Draco blinked and shook himself a bit and the spell shattered around him.

It came over Draco then, just how dangerous that had been, averted disaster like icy water trickling down the back of his neck.  Merlin’s sky and stars, what if someone had ordered him to say his name, or tell the room his darkest secret? 

“That was incredible, Harry,” said Luna.

“Incredible and invisible,” Parkinson snorted.  “ _Explain_ how you did that, Potter!”

“I kept disagreeing with the voice,” said Draco.  “I convinced myself they were the wrong orders.”

“The _wrong_ ones,” Zabini repeated.  “Apparently, a higher purpose is a protection in and of itself.”

“So it would seem,” said Draco, before shaking himself again, drawing Potter’s mantle around his shoulders and nodding to the assembled students.  “Very well.  Who’d like to try?”  And Longbottom rose – _you belong in Gryffindor after all, don’t you?_ – and then Ginny, next, and then Chang and Corner and Goldstein and all the rest were choosing a Slytherin to teach them, not just ignoring them in favor of Harry and Hermione, and it was all such a dizzying success that it was only hours later, once everyone had departed but Granger and Weasley that he realized again how exhausted he was.

Weasley still looked uncertain, but he clapped his hand over Draco’s shoulder and squeezed, and Granger threw herself into Draco’s arms.  He hung limply for a moment before prodding himself into motion, knowing she expected more, knowing she expected _warmth_ , genuine comfort in her presence.  He brought his arms up and held her, careful not to tangle in her hair.

“What was that for?” he inquired as she drew back, because his recent experience told him that even Gryffindors didn’t leap into one another’s arms without provocation.

“I’m just so relieved,” she said.

“We both are,” said Weasley, and when Draco consciously assumed an expression of polite interest, Weasley slung an arm around his shoulder and ruffled his hair, Granger settling in on his other side, arm sliding sweetly around his back to settle at his opposite hip.  Her head rested on his shoulder.

The tightness squeeezed his chest again, and Draco closed his eyes a moment to breathe through it.

“We’ve been worried about you for ages, you git,” said Weasley.  “Since the start of the year –”

Draco looked up sharply.

“Yeah, that’s right, your Silencing Charms aren’t so strong as you think,” Ron said.

“I,” said Draco.

“But now you’re talking to us again,” said Granger at his other side.  “Really talking to us again.  And when you’re here, teaching the others, you’re _yourself_ again, and…”

“Oh, Hermione.  Don’t cry,” said Ron, and the circle of them drew in tight, like the mouth of a purse, Granger sobbing, voice small and throat dry, sounding as nervous as she did grieved. 

“I’m sorry!” Hermione whimpered.  “It’s just… Katie!  And you, Harry… it felt like you’d left us all alone, without going anywhere.  I tried and tried to reach you and I _couldn’t_.  Nothing I said or did worked.  It was like you were a stranger –”

“You know how Hermione gets when she can’t accomplish something,” Weasley muttered.

Hermione whapped him.  “Oh, _Ron!_ ”

“Say _something_ , mate,” Weasley said, and there was a hush interspersed only with Hermione sniffling, breathing hitched.

Draco pulled away to face them.  “I stopped confiding in you.  I left you alone, and I’m sorry.”  It was how he handled Pansy when she’d gone hysterical and he wasn’t sure what she needed: he repeated her concerns to show he was listening.  On the inside, he was shaking a little at how close he’d clearly come to discovery.

“Just don’t _do it again_ ,” Granger ordered.

“Easy, Hermione, I’m not under the Imperius Curse now,” said Draco, and reached up to tug one of her curls.

She laughed wetly.

“C’mon,” Weasley said, herding them before him like a faithful sheepdog.  “Been an eternal day.  I’ve been awake since the dawn of time.”

When they reached Gryffindor Tower and the boys’ dorm, most of the boys were already in bed, if not fully asleep: the Defense Association had let out just at curfew.  A few sleepy mumbles greeted them, but otherwise Ron and Draco entered undisturbed into the dim, moonlit dormitory.

Draco was confronted with the neatly-wrapped package of new jumpers and trousers on the trunk at the foot of Potter’s bed.  He paused on the threshold to stare – it felt as though it had been days since that strange moment in the mirror, but it firmed his resolve as Granger’s tears dried on the shoulder of the new jumper he was still wearing.

What he had to do and what he felt were two different things: they came from two different people, two different sets of goals and experiences and expectations.

_And never the twain shall meet._

When he closed his eyes to centre himself, he saw Katie hovering above his head, arms spread like an offering.

When he blinked again, she was in the snow, seizing.

Ron clapped a hand to his shoulder, and Draco startled and turned.  His heart was thumping wildly in his chest and he felt again as though he were about to be sick.  And on the heels of those nightmare images came a sense-memory of being ensconced in warmth, Granger’s tear-tinged laughter in his ears.

For the first time, he spread his hands just a little, and Weasley stepped into his space and held him a moment before clapping his back and punching his shoulder.  “We’re glad you’re back, mate,” he said.  “That first week or two of term…”

The words juddered through Draco like an electric shock.

But Potter had been _himself._

“You drove Hermione mad, you don’t know the half of it,” Weasley said, dark blue eyes intent on Draco’s own.

“Sorry,” Draco said, without ducking his head.  Without allowing him the relief of escaping Weasley’s scrutiny.

“Over now,” said Weasley, one side of his lip twitching up in rueful commiseration.  “Not that, you know, any of our problems are over, now.  But you’re better, now.  You are better?”

“I won’t – I won’t let it get that bad,” Draco said, hastily.  “Again.”  He frowned, thinking back to his earliest interactions with Weasley in this body.  He’d been shaken, horror-struck, at his wit’s end.  And Weasley had treated him gently, unsurprised by his grief, his terror.

“It’s _okay_ if it gets that bad again,” Weasley said.  “But just – let us in on it, will you?”

“Yes,” said Draco.

“Swear.”

Draco shrugged.

“Harry.”

“Fine.  I, Harry James Potter, swear to come to you in times of trial.”  And he bowed.

“Okay, play the pureblood,” Ron said, “but take your promises to us seriously, will you?”

“Okay,” said Draco, feeling very small.  Something was rising in his throat, and he had to swallow several times before he could speak again.  “Goodnight, Ron.”

“ ‘Night, _Harry James Potter_ ,” said Ron, and wandered off to the restroom to clean his teeth.

It was only when Draco began disrobing that he felt the outlines of a rectangle of parchment in his pocket.  Curious, he withdrew it –

Blaise, of course.  Ginny had given it to Blaise to give to him.  In all the – everything – he’d forgotten about it entirely.  He unfolded the slip of parchment and peered at it in the dim light of a slumbering Gryffindor boys’ dorm, moon shining fat and bright through the window.

In unfamiliar, slanted handwriting were scrawled the words:

 

* * *

_Dear Harry,_

_I hope you will be able to join me for a private lesson over tea and biscuits, 8pm this Monday evening._

_Yours most sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

* * *

 

 

Draco stared until the letters blurred together. Then he withdrew Potter's wand –  _"Incendio!_ " – and watched it puff into smoke.

A meeting with the Headmaster. Just how was Draco supposed to fool a Master Legilimens and one of the most powerful wizards of the age, much less such a man who also knew Potter so well?

Though it appeared a little quiet terror coupled with a stubborn desire to see things through made Draco and Harry indistinguishable.

He tried hard not to think on it too much, but between everything with Katie and Snape and Malfoy and Dumbledore, sleep was a long time coming, and he couldn't help but turn it all over in his head until night stretched lazily into dawn.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to all those who have reviewed so far; I really appreciate it! And it's especially warming to see longtime readers here commenting. I'm surprised and beyond pleased to hear from you!

Here's where I often rec other stories, and I'm about to give my wholehearted support to  _Harry Potter and the Problem of Potions_  by Wyste. It describes the events of canon with one twist: Harry is a Potions nerd. Re-doing canon takes a lot of skill, because there's a temptation to make everything go basically the same with a few twists; however, Wyste has an excellent feel for when to yank the narrative and when to let sleeping plotlines lie. Another really stellar aspect of the story is in the way it depicts Snape and Draco and their relationship to Harry. Surprisingly, Snape is still Snape - no mush, here - and is as snappish and obstreperous as ever. Draco is still a Death-Eater-in-training with borderline-alien morality. Yet Harry remains on friendly terms with both of them and is often caught reminding himself that a) Snape and/or Draco are often dark/Dark people and b) most people don't understand Harry's relationship with either one of them at all, and that includes Harry himself. There's some great action as well as tongue-in-cheek humor. The story has ultra-short chapters, so it's not as incredibly long a read as it at first appears. You can find it here on Archive of Our Own.


	8. Chapter 8

The alchemy that had held Draco before the Gladrags mirror yesterday was on the fritz, like a flickering  _Lumos_  cast by a firstie.

He stumbled into the Gryffindor restrooms awake-yet-not –  _Potter-no-me-no-Potter_ flashing through him as he cast a Cleaning spell at his teeth and wandered into the showers, the dark hair on his arms familiar, now, familiar as the olive hue of his skin.  He paused with his hands finger-deep in his dark hair and thought  _I’ve got to wear it after all,_ and  _I’ve got to feel it around me all day, after all,_ and used citrus soap and moisturizer and conditioner and wasn’t even sorry.

Weasley offered him a flash of a grin as they passed, and Draco dressed in his new things (thinking –  _Potter’s, my,_ my _new things_ ) and descended the stair.  Granger and Weasley were waiting by the portrait, wordless, to go down to breakfast, along with the Gryffindor half of the D.A.  They strode down together, Draco allowing the chatter of the other students to wash over him and consciously staying where Granger and Weasley could keep an eye, which, judging by the wide-eyed desperate searching that happened whenever he was out of sight, was very important to them.

They only gathered more Defense folk as the group travelled, culminating in a throng of nearly fifty students, many of whom were not D.A. and likely just wondering what everyone was doing together.  It was in this large group that they encountered Professor Snape, about to go in for breakfast, himself.

Snape swivelled to face them, and Draco had the privilege of seeing his features flash with unmistakable startlement before settling once again into his usual disapproving mien.  “Potter, is this a mutiny?”

“No, sir,” said Draco.  “But everyone is wondering how Katie is doing.”

Snape raised his brows, lips parted; but, after a moment, it seemed he could find no reason to refuse to reply.  “Miss Bell is recovering in the Hospital Wing.  After such an aggressive magical attack, she may well be there for some time, but St. Mungo’s judged it best that she recover around her  _friends_  and continue to complete her schoolwork at her own pace,” he said with a curl of his lip.

“Thank you again, sir,” said Granger, and Snape didn’t seem to know what to do with her earnest expression.

Indeed, more than a few of the Defense Association were looking up at Professor Snape with rather starry eyes.  “You’re a hero, sir!” Dennis Creevey piped, and snapped a picture.

Draco ducked his head before Snape could see him smile and willfully misinterpret the expression.

Entertainingly, all Snape did was growl and sweep off towards the Great Hall, and Draco held himself stock-still as more than a few of the gathered students giggled to themselves.

Granger muttered something about the library, and swept ahead of them to gather some breakfast foods in her arms.  Weasley behaved as though this was par for the course, so Draco didn’t inquire too closely as to what she was rushing off to discover.

Weasley elbowed him as they approached the Gryffindor table.  “Snape didn’t like  _that_ ,” he laughed.  “Reckon he’s ruined his reputation?”

“With  _one_  good deed?” his sister said, tossing her hair over one shoulder.  “Fat chance.  They’ll have forgotten it by afternoon; see if they don’t.”

“One?” said Luna as she swept past, pale golden hair flashing with the movement.  “You don’t know Professor Snape very well.”

Disgustingly, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, who should’ve known better, were whispering and giggling at the breakfast table, and a few words floated free of their conversation.

 _Byronic_  was one.

“Eww,” said Ron, slapping a huge helping of bangers and mash onto his plate with a disgusting thump.

“Ease up, it’s not going to disappear,” Draco growled.

“Sure,” Ron said and continued to eat at a more leisurely pace; his features had gone a bit cold.

Draco could hardly believe it was the same Ron he’d gotten to know over the past few weeks.  Recent experience indicated Weasley only took offence so swiftly at Draco Malfoy.  But maybe he was more likely to take offence when he thought Potter could  _handle_  his temper, and it was overall a good sign.

Speaking of which… Draco peered over at the Slytherin table and met Pansy’s eyes; she looked significantly at the empty space beside her and shrugged.

“Malfoy’s gone to ground,” he observed.

He would if he knew what was best for him, Draco thought, cold fury rising in his throat.  He wasn’t sure what he would do to Malfoy if he encountered him – shout, or threaten, or – something worse.  Likely, Malfoy suspected Draco would be less than pleased with him, and was avoiding anyone who might have guessed what he’d been up to.

“Need I remind you,” said Ron, continuing to eat in a civilized manner, and thereby proving he could – “that we still have no proof it was Draco Malfoy who did that to Katie?”

“Since when do we need proof?” Draco muttered.

“When you decide – directly after swearing to include Slytherin in the D.A.! – that Draco Malfoy’s guilty because he’s Slytherin,” said Ron, tiredly.  “Look, he’s done a lot of awful things to us.  He’s a nasty little gobshite, and no mistake.  But he isn’t responsible for all the ills of the world.  Even He Who Must Not Be Named can’t be everywhere at once.  Merlin’s balls,” he added with a vicious stab of his breakfast, “it could just as easily be Zabini, since he was  _actually there._ ”

Draco sighed.  “Zabini?  Zabini’s too clever to’ve almost killed Katie by mistake.”

Then he realized it was his own intelligence he was impugning, and winced.

“You, too?” Ron muttered.  “Before you came down to the Common Room, it was all,  _Ron, wasn’t Blaise an efficient instructor?_ and  _Ron, wasn’t Blaise so brave to volunteer_?  ‘Course a Slytherin is gonna volunteer to do Dark Arts; they’re raised up to do it.”

“You were remarkably civil with him,” Draco said, poking at his own food.  “I admit to some surprise.”

“Yeah, I admit to some, too,” said Ron, “but you saw what he was doing, right?  Showing Hermione how  _mature_  he is by getting on with her friends.  Well, I’ll show him.  I can get along with Zabini  _just as well_  as he can get along with me.  Better, even.”

“You do that,” said Draco.  “Whatever that means.”

“Well, it doesn’t mean I’m not keeping my eye on him,” Ron finished, scooping up the last of his eggs neatly.

Draco raised his brows to see Ron had emptied his entire plate and was reaching for seconds.  “Are you in the middle of another growth spurt?” he asked.  “Because if so, that’s distinctly unfair.”

Ron grinned at him.  “Oh,  _Potter_ , you’ll grow up someday,” he said, and fell back on his usual recourse of ruffling Draco’s hair.  Then he withdrew his hand to stare at it.  “Soft,” he said.

Draco self-consciously flattened his hair.  “Product,” he muttered.

“Maybe you’re growing after all,” Ron said wisely, and stuffed his mouth full of fried potato.

 

* * *

 

 

Monday brought with it the interview with Dumbledore, and Draco was torn between trying to escape Hogwarts entirely, ‘forgetting’ the appointment, telling the old man everything, or toughing it out and hoping for the best.

Worse, he didn’t know whose inclinations were whose.

Albus Dumbledore had never taken much interest in Draco before, and he’d presumed then that he could work in secret until the moment he was ready to invite the Death Eaters into Hogwarts and murder him.  He’d  _counted_  on it. 

In short, Draco worried more about taking tea with the man than killing him.

 

* * *

 

 

When 8pm rolled around, he exited the Gryffindor Common Room and found his way to the Headmaster’s Office entrance on the third floor.

A stone gargoyle guarded the entry to the office; Draco had only ever been up here a few times, when he’d been brought before Dumbledore for some infraction: getting Granger in the face with a stray hex was one; being turned into a ferret by the false Moody was another.  Although on that occasion, the Headmaster had offered him an endless supply of lemon drops -- which was confusing enough that he kept accepting one -- and continually asking him queries that fell directly on the line between glee and concern.  Did he still feel compelled to twitch his nose?  Had he been bounced very,  _very_  hard?

“Well?” said the gargoyle.

“Sorry,” Draco muttered, and stepped up to the first landing.  Without a password – he was expected, after all – the stone stair began revolving to carry him upward to Dumbledore’s front door.

The Headmaster’s Offices were a far cry from Snape’s cramped dungeon rooms, piled high with papers and arcane texts, and cabinets on cabinets of potions and potions ingredients.  Dumbledore’s rooms were airy: large and circular, and full of the sorts of background noise that Draco knew would shatter his concentration.  There were a host of tiny, spindle-legged tables about the room, on which silver Sneakoscopes, Foe Glasses, and other Defense items of the highest quality had been placed, some emitting puffs of smoke, others clicking and whirring.  A Pensieve cast scintillating patterns on the ceiling.

It was all so clearly meant to evoke an air of whimsey that Draco snorted quietly to himself.

On the wall were dozens of portraits of old Headmasters and Headmistresses, most of whom were asleep, a few of whom eyed him curiously; Draco's eye immediately sought out one of the only Slytherin Headmasters and his mother's ancestor, Phineas Nigellus Black.  The portrait eyed him beadily and then turned back to a scroll he was reading.  Dumbledore sat behind a claw-footed desk of a size even his father would appreciate.  The Sorting Hat was on a shelf directly behind the Headmaster, a transparent – but likely effective – means of reminding the visitor that even they had, at once point, been under the auspices of Albus Dumbledore as Headmaster, or at the very least as Transfigurations instructor – a call to obedience, a reminder of House loyalty, and an appeal to nostalgia all in one.

It would work well on Gryffindors, Draco surmised.  It would make Slytherins antsy, remind them to be cautious of this man who so blatantly favoured Gryffindor.  Remind them of being treated like sneaks and liars before they could cast a  _Lumos_.

“Good evening, Harry, my boy,” said Dumbledore, and Draco smiled his best, Harry-Potter smile: wan and brave and full of intrinsic goodness.

It seemed to work.

“You have had a busy time while I have been away,” Dumbledore said, gesturing for Draco to seat himself on the other side of the desk.  “I believe you witnessed Katie’s accident.”

Draco settled himself there, noting how the seat was slightly lower than Dumbledore’s; of course it was.  “ ‘Accident’ is a funny thing to call what happened to Katie, sir,” he said firmly, Occluding with all his might.

“Ah.  Yes,” said Dumbledore.  “Lemon drop?”

Oh.  So he did this to everybody?  “Thanks,” Draco said, and popped one in his mouth.

“Katie was cursed, it’s true,” said Dumbledore after a moment’s pause.  “Though I am afraid the curse was not meant for her.”

“No one would want to curse Katie Bell, sir,” Draco said.  “I’m sure whoever did this had another target in mind.”

“You mustn’t believe that target was you,” Dumbledore said, instantly.  “You are not to blame in this.”

That hadn’t even occurred to Draco – perhaps because he knew the truth, perhaps because…  _wait._

“We were at the Three Broomsticks.  All she would’ve had to have done was hand the necklace to me.  We’re teammates, I would have taken it without question.  Instead, she left.  She thought her target was back at the castle, then.”

“So you’ve already deduced it, have you?” said Dumbledore.  “Then, you always were a clever boy.  Lemon drop?”

“No, thank you,” said Draco, still working on the previous one.

“It was a very lucky thing that Katie only touched the necklace through a hole in her glove,” Dumbledore said, “or she might be at St. Mungo’s rather than here at Hogwarts.  And if not for Professor Snape’s quick thinking, she might not be here at all.”  When Draco said nothing, “I also heard,” said Dumbledore, delicately, “that you accused Draco Malfoy of this heinous act.”

Draco flushed, remembering his loss of control.  He shouldn’t have been surprised that it had got around to the Headmaster: he’d shouted it in front of members of the D.A., he’d growled it at Snape.

“Are you still convinced it was Mister Malfoy, Harry?” Dumbledore said, gently.  “Or was that all said in the heat of the moment?”

It was a chance, a way out of his incomprehensible, knee-jerk accusation.  Draco could swear he'd been mistaken… but what was Malfoy to him, anyway?  Just a distraction, a diversion, a decoy.  And on locking Malfoy in Azkaban, no one would believe a word he said.  It would seem especially outlandish for Malfoy to claim that Harry Potter was really Draco, because it would be taken for a particularly suicidal attempt to subvert justice.

He blinked away the image of Katie, suspended against the backdrop of the sky; Katie, twitching on the ground. 

(That was all besides the point.)

“I’m still convinced,” Draco said, palms damp with sweat,  _OccludingOccludingOccluding._  

“So it is your contention that Draco Malfoy intends to kill me?” Dumbledore inquired.

Draco’s gaze jolted up.  “I,” he said.  “His father would be pleased,” he said.

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore agreed.  “Or perhaps his father would find himself in truly hot water, were he to succeed.  Regardless, Harry, you must promise to leave Mister Malfoy to me.”

“Sir?”

“You will think me an old fool,” Dumbledore said.  He chuckled.  “Perhaps part of you already does?  But I do believe Draco Malfoy has some good in him, and is still capable of making the right choice when the time comes.”

Draco snarled.  “With all due respect, sir, that’s the worst sort of naiveté.  He almost killed Katie!  He deserves to be locked up in Azkaban.  Or at the least, expelled.”

“And if we could prove he were responsible,” Dumbledore said slowly, “then he would be.  But I will not act without solid evidence.”  He raised his great, bushy brows and regarded Draco over his spectacles.  “Will you provide such evidence?”

Draco thought about trying to explain how he wasn’t Harry Potter, that he was actually Draco Malfoy; and that, as his first, honest act, he was about to incriminate and imprison  _himself_.

That would go over like a lead broom.  Dumbledore was more likely to have him committed to St Mungo’s than to remove Malfoy from campus.

“No, sir.  I guess not.”

“Be certain, Harry, that I shall take all appropriate measures to investigate anyone who might have had a hand in Katie’s injury.  However, your trip to Hogsmeade involved another strange encounter, did it not?”

“I threatened Fletcher and implied he ought to leave the Order,” said Draco reluctantly _,_ accepting the change of subject with poor grace.  “He was stealing things from the House of Black.”

“I cannot blame you in the slightest,” said Dumbledore, and Draco felt his shoulders unhitch a hair.  “Mundungus has been treating your inheritance with a light-fingered contempt.  He has gone to ground since you accosted him outside the Three Broomsticks; I rather think he dreads facing me.  However, he will not be making away with any more of Sirius’s old possessions.”

“That mangy old half-blood has been stealing Black heirlooms?” said Phineas Nigellus Black, incensed; and he stalked out of his frame.  Draco rather wished he had stayed; Phineas Nigellus was one of the only of his relatives that hung on the Headmaster’s walls, and seeing his familiar-looking features there had been unexpectedly settling.

“And now that we are done with new business,” said Dumbledore, rising from his chair and moving towards his Pensieve, “let us revisit the old.

“You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Lord Voldemort’s beginnings at the point where the handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his witch wife, Merope, and returned to his family home in Little Hangleton. Merope was left alone in London, expecting the baby who would one day become Lord Voldemort.”

 _What_ , thought Draco.   _What.  What.  What._

Dumbledore took the Pensieve in his hands and gently swirled its contents in a lazy circle.  A tiny figure rose up out of the swirling, silvery mass, silver as a ghost but much more solid, with a thatch of hair that completely covered his eyes.  The tiny figure opened his mouth and began to speak:

“Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances.  It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now.  She said she needed the gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along . . .  Going to have a baby, see.  She said the locket had been Slytherin’s.  Well, we hear that sort of story all the time, ‘Oh, this was Merlin’s, this was, his favourite teapot,’ but when I looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth.  Of course, that made it near enough priceless.  She didn’t seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!”

Dumbledore gave the Pensieve a vigorous shake and the little man descended back into the swirling mass of memory from whence he had come.

“That was Caractacus Burke,” Dumbledore said.  “Near the end of her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London and in desperate need of gold, desperate enough to sell her one and only valuable possession, the locket that was one of Marvolo’s treasured family heirlooms.”

“But she could do magic!” said Draco impatiently.  “That’s what separates us from the Muggles – she could have at the very least gotten by…”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore, “perhaps she could. But it is my belief — I am guessing again, but I am sure I am right — that when her husband abandoned her, Merope stopped using magic.  I do not think that she wanted to be a witch any longer.”

Draco tried to imagine a circumstance in which he was so horrorstruck that he would abandon his heritage, his family, and blanched:

It was the very thing to which his own mother had been driven.

Perhaps she hadn’t declared him a Muggle, but she’d pruned him away from the family tree so that both he and the family would survive.  Merope had been one echelon of despair further than Narcissa – but only one.

“Of course, it is also possible that her unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped her of her powers; that can happen. In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life.”

Well.  All right, that was worse than taking on a new identity.

Dumbledore pulled a memory to the surface of the Pensieve.  “Well, come along, then, Harry,” he said.  “Let’s venture into one of my own memories, this time…”

Younger Albus Dumbledore was something of a looker, Draco thought in surprise.  His fashionable clothing and auburn hair was one thing, but then there was also the confidence with which he held himself, the sly smirk on his face that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Slytherin's as he strode up to an ancient building redolent with the laughter and voices of children.  The way he handled himself with the matron of the orphanage reminded Draco more of his father’s ways with Muggles than anyone – how easily Dumbledore had turned to using his wand rather than his wits – the way he’d plied the young woman with alcohol despite how clear it was that she was an inexperienced drinker, or perhaps because of it. 

Which House had Dumbledore been in, growing up?  Draco had heard it was Gryffindor, but now he was no longer so sure.  Perhaps Dumbledore surrounded himself with Gryffindors not because he was one, but because they were particularly manipulable.

Or relaxing to be around.  Draco could make a case for relaxing, after interacting with Weasley and Granger for the past month.  Even masquerading as Harry Potter wasn’t as confining as his family’s expectations, or the twenty-four-seven pantomime of pureblood supremacy required of him in Slytherin.

Draco came back to himself in time to realize that the young Muggle was discussing Tom Riddle’s behaviour at the orphanage, that he was a bit of a bully but “hard to catch at it”.

 _Slytherin_ , thought Draco with a private smile, turning his face away so that the older Dumbledore at his side couldn’t see.

“Billy Stubbs’s rabbit . . . well, Tom said he didn’t do it and I don’t see how he could have done, but even so, it didn’t hang itself from the rafters, did it?”

Draco stared.

“I shouldn’t think so, no,” said the younger Dumbledore, quietly.  It was the first Draco saw in the young man that echoed the gravitas of the old.

“All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before.  And then” — the young Muggle took another swig of gin, slopping a little over her chin — “on the summer outing — we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside — well, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they’d gone into a cave with Tom Riddle.”

 _Never quite right afterwards_ , Draco thought.  What kind of magic could make a child never right again?

 _Crucio_ , he thought with a jolt of horror.  They’d been brain damaged.  Like Longbottom’s parents.  A terrible certainty was beginning to collect in his gut, running to tingle down his to fingers.

 “…I suppose you’d like to see him, then?” the young woman murmured, rising to her feet unsteadily.  She was long past tipsy; Draco wondered just how sick she’d been after this little interview.

“Very much,” was all Dumbledore said, and Draco followed.

The woman led them to Tom Riddle’s sad little room: just a wooden chair, an iron bed, and a scuffed-up wardrobe.  Draco went into the room fully, walking around, peering under the bed.  But there was nothing: no sign of personality, no knick-nacks, no improvised dolls or little, dented toys. 

Nothing that said the boy inside was  _human_.

He didn’t look human, quite.  His hair was pitch-dark, his eyes the same, and his skin was pale.  But just as with Dumbledore, Draco paid less attention to his physical appearance and more to his face, where a queer stillness sat, as though nothing at all moved beneath the surface…

“How do you do, Tom?” said Dumbledore.  He strode forward and offered his hand to the boy sitting on the little bed.

Tom Riddle stared at the proffered limb as though he wasn’t sure what an extended hand meant, or was for, before placing his book down on his lap to copy the action in such a stilted, studied way made it clear he didn’t understand the spirit behind the gesture.

Dumbledore didn’t appear concerned, or no moreso than previously; instead, he pulled the wooden chair close to Riddle’s bed and seated himself there, introduced himself.

“‘Professor’?” the boy quoted.  Human expression had finally found him.  He looked guarded, now, wary of hurt.  “Is that like ‘doctor’? What are you here for?  Did she get you in to have a look at me?”  He pointed insistently at the door through which the young Muggle had departed.

“No, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling.

“I don’t believe you,” said Riddle.  “She wants me looked at, doesn’t she?  Tell the truth!”

He infused the command with such a degree of power that Draco was reluctantly impressed.  Tom had the expectation of being obeyed, too – that much was clear when Dumbledore’s lack of response shook him badly.  Now Draco could see genuine anger on the boy’s face, and fear sitting behind it.

He knew all too well what that looked and felt like.

“Who are you?” Tom spat, cringing and growling all at once, a cornered dog. 

Dumbledore reiterated his assertion that he was a Professor of Hogwarts school – a school for special young men and women –

But Tom’s fear had overcome him.  He scrambled off the bed and settled in the far corner of the room, back pressed to the wall.  “The asylum,” he muttered.  “That’s it, that’s where you’re from…  I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they’ll tell you!”

 _Crucio_ and then  _Obliviate_ , Draco thought, numbly.  Or their wordless equivalents, since Tom could have had no training.  And unless he’d been mistaken, Tom had tried the infant cousin of the Imperius Curse on Albus Dumbledore just now.

For incomprehensible reasons, Dumbledore wasn’t reaching for his wand.  Draco’s wand hand itched and he knew he wasn’t even really  _present_.  Draco was only brought out of his abstraction when Tom declared – loudly – that he was not mad.

Draco saw the hint of strain around the little boy’s eyes, and felt the first stirrings of compassion.

“I know that you are not mad,” young Dumbledore explained, gently.  “Hogwarts is not a school for mad people.  It is a school of magic.”

There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and forth, scanning Dumbledore's own gaze --

 _He’s not doing Occlumency or Legilimency_ , Draco thought, half-hysterical.   _At eleven?  He’s_ not.

The little boy was explaining what he could already do with his powers in a fevered litany that would have concerned Granger herself, and made Weasley reach grimly for his wand.  He called himself  _special_  in a voice tinged with a religious ecstasy, as if he had been waiting all his life for confirmation of his elevation from the rabble around him, and something in Draco’s stomach flipped.

When he demanded and received a demonstration of Dumbledore’s powers, the boy’s attitude changed completely.  Draco recognized his own tendency to turn obsequious in the face of greater power, his own plotting mind turning gears while his expression remained outwardly smooth and even fawning. 

But Riddle had a different style.  Whereas Draco projected obsequious admiration, Riddle’s voice grew smooth as he spoke to Dumbledore, his tone polite; yet his face showed no expression, even as Dumbledore berated him for stealing a tiny box of seemingly useless objects from his fellow orphans.  It was as though Tom had two emotions – fury and terror – and beyond that, he could show nothing.

Tom winnowed his way out of accompaniment to Diagon Alley, received the rest of his instructions necessary to attend Hogwarts in the fall, and Dumbledore drew Draco out of the memory.  Suddenly, they were standing once again in Dumbledore’s needlessly eccentric offices, and Draco was dizzy.

“Sit down, my boy,” said Dumbledore, tiredly.

“So he was a psychopath,” Draco said, thumping into his seat.  “It was clearly natural to him.”

“How so?” said Dumbledore, offering Draco another lemon drop.

He took it and sucked on it, the sharp sweetness grounding him.  Dumbledore popped one into his own mouth, past his bushy beard.

“They weren’t mistreating him there,” Draco mused.  “He had no visible marks of abuse.  The other children we passed were a little grim.  To be expected, raised under those conditions.  But they had toys and dolls and they were speaking to each other; they had trips to the seaside.  Tom Riddle’s room looked like he’d lived there less than a day.  There were no books beyond the one he was holding.  No toys, no mementoes.  It was as though he had no interest at all in play.  The only items he kept were ones he’d stolen.”

“Your eyes were sharper than mine, perhaps,” Dumbledore conceded.  “I thought him a lonely, friendless boy…”

“You didn’t see he was mad?” Draco pressed.

Dumbledore sighed, stroking his beard.  “Harry, not all Muggle-raised children take to magic so well as you did.”

Draco’s chin jolted up.

“Muggleborn children’s magical accidents make them outsiders.  Their lack of control isolates them and fashions them into an object of fear to Muggles.  It can mean they are made to feel as though they are not quite human.”  His expression softened into sorrow.  “Tom was far from the first magical child I found who had behaved thus, and I am certain I will encounter others.  They end up in Slytherin, because they are so afraid.”

“What does being in Slytherin have to do with fear?” Draco said.  He kept his voice admirably even.  “I thought they were the House of high ambitions.”

“Few chase power but for fear’s sake,” Dumbledore said softly.  “It was why I so worried for you when the Hat suggested Slytherin…”

_He’d been found out!_

“Make no mistake, Harry, you and Tom have a great deal in common.  You never really knew your parents.  You were raised without a parent’s love.  You both have a relentless thirst to prove yourselves…”

He  _hadn’t_  been found out.  But that meant…

 _Wait,_ Potter _was supposed to be in Slytherin?_

And was Dumbledore suggesting, to Potter’s face no less, that he had feared Potter might become the next Dark Lord?

Draco didn't know which revelation dizzied him more.

“Imagine if I had denied you access to Hogwarts because of your upbringing,” Dumbledore said gently.  “Imagine if I had barred access to those other damaged children.  Most of them sort out, you see.  They find people to trust…  As Headmaster of Hogwarts School, you understand – it’s my job to allow them that opportunity.”  He smiled and leaned forward, tilting a particularly significant look Draco’s way.  “Even if that damaged child is Draco Malfoy.”

“Malfoy’s not an eleven-year-old  _child,_ ” said Draco, indignantly.  “He’s nearing his majority.  This incident with Katie wasn’t some childish prank or mistake.”

“So I should isolate him from Hogwarts’ influence and let Tom have his way with him on a suspicion?  You must trust me in this matter,” said Dumbledore placidly.  “Now, back to the issue at hand.  Did you note how Tom responded to the fact that someone else shared his name?”

“He hated having a name that could sound so  _Muggle_ ,” Draco supplied, thumping back into his chair as, once again, Dumbledore closed the subject of Draco Malfoy.

“Well-spotted.  Already the ordinary repelled him.”

“If he wasn’t extraordinary, then he was merely mad,” Draco observed.  “Bound for the asylum?”  He paused.  “Desolate to hear someone else was named ‘Tom’, but all right with there being a whole school filled with witches and wizards like him?  That seems odd.”

Dumbledore nodded.  “Astute, Harry.  And what of his decision to visit Diagon Alley alone?”

“Self-sufficient; trusting of no one, relying on no one,” reported Draco.  “Why didn’t you insist?”

“You missed my tracking spell,” said Dumbledore.  “I had the boy followed, of course.”

 _Definitely_ Slytherin.

“You will hear many of his Death Eaters claiming that they are in his confidence, that they alone are close to him, even understand him.  They are deluded.  Lord Voldemort has never had a friend, nor do I believe that he has ever wanted one.  He sees very little point to other people.  I think were he to awaken one day to find himself the last man on earth, he should be quite content.”

“A friend and an ally isn’t the same thing,” Draco protested.

“No,” Dumbledore agreed.  “But Voldemort knows no loyalties, either.  Allies are always temporary pieces on the board, to be sacrificed when appropriate.”  Dumbledore paused.  “You might do well to investigate the stories of the Blacks who served him in the first war, or the Sparrows.  Poor Millie Sparrow – he convinced her he was in love with her, for a time.”  Dumbledore shook his head.  “With practice, he learned how to be charming, to say what others wanted to hear; we taught him that much, at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said, lip twisting unhappily.  “He learned it as another boy learns Potions, or Transfigurations.”

“It was strange, the things he stole,” said Draco.

“They were valueless in and of themselves,” Dumbledore said.  “I want you to think, Harry.  What would have value to a boy like that?”

“His specialness.  His difference,” said Draco.  “His distinctness from the Muggle rabble.”  He looked up.  “Did he take something from everyone he cursed?”

Dumbledore settled back into his chair, steepling his fingers.  “I believe he did.”

“And he took them out and handled them often,” Draco said.  “That box.  It was worn.  He’d take out each item and re-live the event.  The  _Cruciatus_ ,” he muttered, because he couldn’t imagine hating anyone so much that he’d get soppily nostalgic over their screams.  Though he suspected it wasn’t their pain Tom enjoyed, but the certainty of his power over them.  The safety in knowing he could do it again.

“Did he try and be normal when he got here?” Draco said.  “He must’ve tried very hard to be normal, or else he wouldn’t have fooled anybody; he wouldn’t have fooled  _you_.  He tried to be sane, he worked at it.  But in the end, he couldn’t stop himself.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. 

“And no one ever caught him?”  Then, Draco answered himself.  “He was already too clever to be caught when he was eleven.  Why should he have been caught here?”

“That's right,” said Dumbledore.  “No one did.  And I understand all too well the parallels with Mister Malfoy, Harry; but for now, it seems it has grown quite late.”

Draco stood.  “Thank you for the lesson, Professor,” he said.

“Goodnight, Harry,” said Dumbledore, and Draco swept from the room, allowing the stone steps to swivel him around.  He waited until he was in a hallway with no spying portraits before he let himself sink, back to the wall, and breathe shallowly with his head between his knees. 

First and foremost, he'd somehow managed to survive the encounter.  For a good few minutes, all he did was breathe and remind himself he was safe.

But then, once he'd calmed, what he'd learned began to trickle to the forefront of his mind.

Even listing all the things he’d heard that had shaken his world would have taken ages.  The Savior of the Wizarding World recommended for Slytherin – Voldemort as some small, damaged child the very existence of a place like Hogwarts was meant to rehabilitate – Dumbledore’s staunch support of one Draco Malfoy.

The maddest thing about the whole experience: at no point had he been entirely convinced that Dumbledore didn’t know exactly who sat before him.  Nothing he had said didn’t match what he might have told Draco for his own good.

Did Dumbledore mean this to be his second chance?  This foray into what it felt like to be a beloved hero – truly beloved, Draco knew now, and merely not tinged with some faint spangled echo of glory…  The respect people offered Potter had been earned, through Defense classes and kindness as well as magical prowess and bravery.  It was clearer than ever, now, that Weasley and Granger weren’t just hitching themselves to a star; that they loved Potter, looked after him, and wanted for him to be happy.

That thrum under his breastbone sang, and Draco clutched the fabric over his heart.

But Dumbledore was a fool, Draco thought, clawing his way to his feet and dusting off his robes, forcing his body into easy lines.  He was wrong about Malfoy, a two-dimensional menace who would stop at nothing to murder him and bring the Death Eaters to Hogwarts.  Just as he’d been wrong about Tom Riddle.

This was the problem when you gave everyone a chance, Draco thought, making his way back to Gryffindor Tower.  The world was full of grasping fools who thought they could handle power over others, who would do anything to others in order to take it.  But the only ones who really  _could_  were people kind enough not to want power for its own sake.  People who were strong enough to force others to do good or be punished.

Draco could admit it, now.  Potter might have been that kind of person, especially with Ron and Hermione to balance and settle him.  But Potter…

Potter was gone.

So.

Tom Riddle wanted to feel special, powerful, and be in control of others.  He’d hated the Muggles around him growing up, and he’d punished them for making him feel out of step with them.  He’d told himself it was all right, whatever he did, because he was so far beyond them that they were playthings, not even real people.

And that line of thinking meant he’d tried to stop at Hogwarts; after all, there were no evil Muggles to look down on him.  But cruelty was in his nature, and he couldn’t be a normal boy.  So he moved from Muggles to Muggleborns and Half-bloods... maybe because of their resemblance to the Muggles, or else he’d just found a group of fellow-thinkers who wouldn’t mind his behaviour, so long as Muggleborns and Halfbloods were the ones getting hurt.  And so he’d rationalized his cruelty, ennobled his madness, and he'd believed in his own lies so passionately that he'd managed to convince others.

And if hatred itself was the  _point_ , the warm rush of righteous supremacy both the means and the end, how could Tom ever stop?

 

Uneasily, Draco realized he’d made his way to Gryffindor Tower by rote.

“Quidditch pitch,” he said to the Fat Lady’s portrait, scrubbing his hands through his hair.  He was exhausted, but first he retrieved parchment to compose a circumspect letter of report to his father.

After three false starts, he realized he was only going to be able to write it if he wrote it from the perspective of Tom Riddle: a man who believed in his superiority the way other men believed in God.

Draco wandered, half-drugged with sleep, to the Owlery to send it off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo.
> 
> This will be the last time I use ANY dialogue word-for-word from the books if that bothered you. I avoided it up to now because it tends to bother me. However.
> 
> This was too interesting a scene to avoid representing from Draco's perspective, because Draco was going to take away very different things from this encounter than Harry would; and since it was a memory that Draco couldn't interact with, I had to keep it basically the same.
> 
> First: Draco's observations of Dumbledore. I (and probably many other readers) were a bit taken aback by how cavalier Dumbledore is about manipulating the matron of the orphanage (and I think JKR meant us to be). But what shocked me the most is that when Harry sees her drink and drink under Dumbledore's influence, he presumes this means she's an 'experienced drinker' -- literally blaming her for an action she's been enchanted to carry out. 
> 
> Before I read Harry's assumption, I thought literally the opposite -- that she must not drink often, because she was drinking hard liquor like water; her inexperience means she doesn't actually know how to drink a lot and still avoid getting sick. It's four or five shots over the course of what appears to be a 20-minute conversation. She's described as a slight woman, so she's likely to have genuine alcohol poisoning, later. Without loyalty to Dumbledore pushing Draco to think the best of him, his sympathies shockingly land on the Muggle's side.
> 
> Hearing that Voldemort came from a Muggle father and a witch mother who'd enchanted him is likely far more of a shock to Draco than to Harry. The idea that Tom is a classical serial-killer type rather than a noble leader of principle might be less of a shock to a Draco beginning to know Tom a little better, but still has to be a jolt. Understanding that Voldemort 'graduated' from hatred of one group to hatred of others points out hatred and prejudice for the Mobius strip it is. For extremists, hate is an end in and of itself. They're addicted; they enjoy the rush it brings and how powerful it makes them feel. It's not something that's easy to give up.
> 
> Keep reading, keep writing, everyone!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger* warning for mentions of noncon. Not at all graphic.

Of course, Granger and Weasley wanted to know all about the meeting as they traipsed out to the greenhouses the following morning. A dark mist had swallowed them up so completely that Granger had the edge of his cloak tucked in her hand, and Weasley had the edge of Granger's.

"Creepy, a tiny He Who Must Not Be Named," said Ron.

"Well I for one think it's fascinating," said Hermione, predictably.

"He collects mementoes after using Dark magic, like some kind of serial killer," Draco blurted. The idea of Tom Riddle as a damaged little boy grown into a serial killer had haunted him all night. The implied erraticism was far more frightening than the dark, noble and pragmatic hero from his father's stories.

"Wow," said Ron.

"It was all rather drawn-out, though; Dumbledore could've just said," said Draco, pausing as the giant metal rods of a greenhouse rose out of the mist like dragon's bones. "Wait, is that it?"

"No," said Hermione. "That's Greenhouse Four. Anyway, I think it isn't just the facts that Dumbledore wants you to have. He wants you to see Tom Riddle as a  _person_. A fallible, ordinary person."

"He was performing Unforgivables at age eleven," countered Ron. "I don't figure that qualifies him for either fallible or ordinary."

"There was another party last night," said Hermione.

"Another?" said Draco. "Wait, is that it?" he added, pointing.

"That's Greenhouse Five," said Hermione. "Yes,  _another_ , Harry. The Slug Club, remember?"

"Oh," said Draco. He recalled the sting of not being invited to the first one, but it seemed very far away.

"It was a bit of all right," she said. "Gwenog Jones was there, which was very interesting –"

" _Gwenog Jones_?" Ron squeaked. He cleared his throat. "I mean. Gwenog Jones, Holyhead Harpies, yeah, very interesting.  _There_  it is," he tacked on as they finally found Greenhouse Three.

They moved immediately to grab their gloves and goggles.

"Hurry it along, you three!" said Sprout, and for awhile they were obligated to remain diligently silent, working on their Snargaluff stumps.

Draco added fresh mulch to their plant's pot while Hermione spoke soothingly to it, but it responded by  _exploding_ in vines and making a credible attempt at killing them all. Draco whacked it with his trowel and Granger dove headfirst to retrieve the stupid pod that would give them a decent score, and they were glad of their gloves and goggles by the end.

"Anyway," said Hermione, dripping, dropping the pod into their bowl, "it doesn't appear even  _you_  can escape Slughorn forever, Harry. He's holding a Christmas party and he's insisting you be there."

"I'll hide," said Draco.

"…the body? I'll help," Ron muttered.

"You can't, I'm afraid. He asked me to check your availability before setting the date," Hermione replied, lips twitching with the effort to suppress a grin.

"And this is another Slugs-only meeting?" Ron was flushed, looking angry and embarrassed. The Potter palimpsest nudged, and a puckish impulse rose to the fore.

"So bring Ron as your guest," Draco said, pressing on the pod with the top of his trowel, attempting to juice it; it was being stubborn. "All  _civilized_  parties allow you to take a plus one."

Hermione was looking stricken, gaze darting between Harry and Ron. "Er," she said.

"Or I'll ask him, if you've already asked somebody," said Draco, shoving Ron with his shoulder.

"I'd lay bets old Sluggy would swallow his tongue," Ron said. Embarrassment and the sort of wickedness that used light up the twins' faces seemed to be fighting for supremacy in his eyes.

"Actually," said Hermione, very quickly, "Slughorn  _did_  mention a plus one, Ron, and I was going to ask you, I just hadn't got 'round to it yet."

"Oh?" said Ron.

They stared at each other blankly, slime dripping off the both of them, and suddenly it was too much.

Draco began to laugh. He couldn't help himself, and he didn't think that he could explain without insulting them. "Just… thought of a really, really funny joke all of a sudden," he said, and stumbled off to give Professor Sprout their group project before he laughed so hard he emptied it all over the mist-laden earth.

He made it in ahead of the pair, letting them trail back and talk. The Potter palimpsest was purring with approval, and it was hard not to let Potter's joy put a spring in his step and a smug grin on his face, so he didn't bother to fight it as he re-entered the Castle…

…but then he caught sight of white-blond hair in the corridor ahead of him and the smile fell off his face. He let his hand rest on his wand and trailed Malfoy for a few corridors, following the dark sweep of his robes, the glint of gold in his hair, waiting until he was alone. Then he picked up his pace.

Malfoy paused when there was only ten or so meters between them, half-looking over his shoulder; that aquiline turn of his nose, the flash of his grey eyes were at once desperately familiar, and (Draco felt a twist of nausea and longing) entirely despicable.

"Malfoy!" he called, bringing his wand to bear. Malfoy drew his own wand and they faced each other.

Draco's gaze flickered over his counterpart. He looked older, or else more harrowed than when he'd last laid eyes on him: sleepless and diminished, swimming in his expensive robes.

"Are you suffering?" said Draco, and had the startling pleasure of watching his own features contract in pain. " _Good_. You almost killed Katie."

" _We_  almost killed Katie," Malfoy rasped. "Or in your newfound righteousness did you forget that you were still  _me_  when you came up with this plan?"

"It was a contingency for worst-case-scenarios!" Draco shouted, waggling his wand.

"And what do you think this is?" Malfoy shouted, striding forward – madness sparking in his eyes – on the approach, pressing on until Draco was backed against the wall. "Obviously you'd have done it. Obviously you  _did_! Have you forgotten what you are?"

"I know who I am," Draco growled.

"I asked if you remembered _what_  you are," Malfoy said, softer. He drew close, his wand pressing to Draco's throat; and Draco was letting him, although he kept his own wand pointed firmly at Malfoy's ribcage, making sure to press hard enough so that the other boy knew it was there. "Or are you really convinced you're the boy hero? Don't you know me?" he murmured.

"Yes," Draco huffed, staring into his own grey eyes up close. "Yes."

"Then you  _know_  you would've done this."

Draco felt hypnotized. He breathed out, slow, body relaxing. "Yes."

"You would've hurt her," Malfoy said, and his voice hitched.

"Yes," Draco said. His wand hand felt weak. "And I'd have felt a miserable pathetic  _failure_  for it." His eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me you're glad; I won't believe it."

Malfoy's features spasmed, breathing going shallow. His head tipped forward. "No."

"So  _stop._ Draco," Draco said, his own name sitting strange on his tongue. He shifted his grip on his wand so that his hand rested gently against the other boy's waist. "You don't have to do this. We could go to Dumbledore together. Explain…"

Draco couldn't see Malfoy's eyes, but his lower lip trembled.

"You don't need to do this alone –"

_WHACK!_

Draco felt his head crack against the flagstones as he was knocked back, felt the world go strange and swimmy. When he opened his eyes, Malfoy had his wand trained on him again, and his lips were pulled back from his teeth in a rictus. "How  _dare_  you?" he said. "How  _dare_ you say that to me, to  _me_ ,  _looking like that._ "

 _Looking like what?_  Draco thought for a good ten seconds. He would blame the knock to the head, but he knew the head that smarted, the sun-browned arm that lifted to adjust his skewed glasses, the eyes he blinked to re-establish his sense of space all as his own, and it was hard to realize until Malfoy was white in the face and trembling with rage that something in  _Harry Potter_  saying all that was what was so beyond the pale.

So, "what?" he muttered, straightening with difficulty, crouching to reclaim the wand that had flown from his hand, and adjusting his glasses again.

" _Fuck you_ ," Malfoy said – and then, like an epithet – " _Potter_." His lip curled, but he was already backing away. "And stay out of the fucking Room of Requirement with your band of do-gooders. Don't think I haven't noticed you're there in the evenings. Want all my glory for yourself, do you?"

Shaken, Draco barked, "the glory of nearly,  _accidentally_  killing a girl? No, no,  _Malfoy_  – keep all  _that_  glory for yourself," and it felt more natural, quips and insults settling down over his skin like a comfortable old sweater, none of this skin-flaying, whispered truth hissed into the shell of his ear, too low, too close.

When Malfoy retreated down the hallway, it all felt unsettlingly like a narrow escape.

* * *

A few of the more brazen Gryffindors had taken to earnestly asking after Katie's health in Draco's presence, and loudly expostulating what a shame it was that Harry hadn't replaced her on the team, yet, shaking their heads and clucking their tongues.

After nearly a week of this, Draco spelled a notice to the wall announcing a second set of tryouts for the vacated position; he'd barely known the Gryffindors the first time around, and so the less-than-stellar performances hadn't stuck in his head. In the end, he chose Dean; Draco thought Potter might've allowed Dean on the team just to help him catch the eye of Ginny Weasley, who shyly returned his attention, given that his skill was about on par with a few of the others.

Though watching them flirt gave Draco a weird kind of stomachache.

The next morning, Hermione swept in and grabbed an orange. "Off to the library," she said again.

"What for?" Ron wondered. "You should eat."

"Nothing, I just – it's a project I'm working on…" she said, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "It's personal." And she dashed away.

Draco scowled. "What do you suppose that's all about? Hermione's been running off to the library before classes more and more, now."

"Hermione's always running off to the library," Ron said, but Draco noted he didn't look unconcerned.

"And when she is?" prompted Draco, looking up from under his lashes.

"Yeah, all right, it's usually something dead serious," agreed Ron. "Maybe it's about the Imperius Curse; she's going mad because I can't resist it, yet, and she's afraid I'll be replaced by, I dunno,  _Dolohov_. But she usually comes to us once she's got something. Don't you think getting a few shots in before class is more important?"

Draco shook his head. "You've been doing just fine in practice, and Dean's fitting in the team well as our stand-in Chaser. But Hermione's been running off to the library before class a few days in a row, and I want to know what she thinks is so important."

"Suit yourself," Ron said, and moved back to the Gryffindor table; when Draco snuck a look behind him, he was piling his plate high with food.

Granger was laying out books and diagrams when Draco caught up with her in the library, so he stood in the stacks and waited for her to finish so that it would be harder to dash away. In the end, she had four books laid out and two parchments weighed down by ink bottles when Draco made his presence known.

"Harry," she said, casually leaning to extend the loose sleeve of her robes over one of the diagrams; but it caught in the inkwell, which tipped. "Oh –  _blast!_ "

"Here," said Draco and cleaned it. Then he coughed when he spotted that she was staring at the Black family tree. "What are you looking at – Sirius's – family tree for?"

She flushed. "I'm not."

"You are, that's the Blacks. I see Draco's name."

"Draco's?" She raised both brows.

"Malfoy's, then. Draco Black-Malfoy's." He raised his eyebrows.

"Well, I was trying to determine whether or not perhaps I carried some of their traits."

This was the last possible thing on a long line of unlikely things that Draco would have expected to hear from Hermione Granger.

"So I realized what you must've meant when you said that Muggleborn witches and wizards are actually half-and-half. And of course what you meant is, that my mother is my mother, of course, but my father can't be my father. That some wizard went raping and pillaging one day on a lark, and he raped my mother and Obliviated her, and that's where I came from." Hermione had gone rather white in the face, and her hands were trembling. "I've always wondered where I got my magic, and how other Muggleborn witches did, so." She squared her shoulders. "Nothing comes from nothing, so it makes sense."

Draco opened his mouth to interrupt – to say something, anything, to get that look off of Granger's face – when she pressed on.

"So I've been doing genealogy charts and Punnett squares," said Hermione, "and it looks as though there's a decent chance I'm a Black, because of this missing person blasted off the family tree  _here_ ," she said, pointing at a scorch mark with one, trembling finger to where it read  _Antony Black_. "You'd blast someone off your family tree for rape and pillage, wouldn't you? Especially if you were a pureblood who really believed in maintaining the family line. And he had brown eyes and wild, dark hair, like mine," Hermione tacked on. "And he was renowned for being clever which – I am. And he would've been the same age as mum, or nearly, and so – I mean, not that it would've mattered to someone who was just going to –" She went alarmingly paler, then rallied. "But anyway," she finished with a tone of forced cheer, "it's as good a guess as any! Right?"

"Hermione," said Draco.

"I get it, now," she said, closing one of the books and moving it to the back of the table. " _Mudblood._  Dirty blood. They meant I was a bastard. Anyway," she said. "Anyway."

There was no word for how Draco felt. Maybe it was that his mistake was so unthinking that made it so troubling. He hadn't thought Hermione would respond this way.

Well. He hadn't thought as far as Hermione at all. He'd only thought that it was  _true_  about Muggleborn witches as a group.

"Why do you want to know," Draco began. "To know who…?"

"I haven't decided if I want to kill him in his sleep or sue for child support, or report him for Azkaban," Hermione said. "But – have you  _met_  me? No matter what, I need to know."

"Okay," said Draco. He raked his hair back with both hands. "Okay, here." He led Hermione back to the genealogy section and scanned for the volume he remembered in his father's hands: a thin, royal-purple volume with no characters scribed on the spine. He sighed in relief when he found it; he flipped until he found the right page and passed it over.

Granger peered inside; but in a moment her brown eyes widened, and she looked up at Draco in shock and joy, one hand cradling the book's spine, her other palm pressed to the open pages. "Yes!" she said. "Yes, exactly, thank you!" And she bobbed forward to peck Draco on the cheek.

Draco clapped his hand to his cheek and tried not to look so poleaxed as he felt.

"Okay. Okay," Hermione said, shifting her hold on the slim volume and drawing her wand. " _Determinare vetusta origine et cymatia_ ," she said, and her wand followed the motions within the text almost exactly, of course, she only had to repeat it one more time adding a missing little flick, features furrowed in demand:  _work, damn you_.

Over Hermione's head sprang a silver line that branched and branched up, expanding exponentially into a classical family tree until the lines became too narrow to see; she directed it forward with her wand until they could both peer at it.

"Hermione Granger," she read aloud, then traced upwards with her finger. "Jane Mercy-Granger and John Granger!"

Draco whirled to peer more closely. "That can't be right."

"It  _is_  right," said Granger, bouncing on her toes. "Oh. Oh! Thank  _goodness_ …" She stood on tip-toe. "And  _their_  parents. Look, that's my grandmother Irene, and her husband, Thomas… and Ruby Jane Mercy, look!"

"All rather common names – wherever did 'Hermione' come from?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "I've grown to like it, but I'm entirely certain my parents chose it to prove how  _clever_  they were. They wanted an extraordinary child. How else but by invoking Shakespeare and Ancient Greek in the same breath? Hey, let's do you!" Granger enthused.

"I don't -!" protested Draco, because he wasn't sure at all whose family tree would appear.

He needn't have worried – at Granger's firm, " _Determinare vetusta origine et cymatia_ ," Potter's lineage rose up over his head. They peered at it together.

"James Potter," Draco read aloud. "Lily Jane Evans…" A sick sensation swooped in his belly. Everyone in the chart, including  _Harry James Potter_ , at the bottom, was dead. The death of an old family line, gone out to make way for Draco. Pruned back so another branch could produce sweeter fruit.

"I've got the same middle name as your mum!" Hermione said, sounding pleased. "His parents…  _Fleamont_? James's grandparents must not have liked their son very much!"

"Fleamont was his mother's maiden name, look," said Draco, pointing. "She must've wanted the name to live on." He shifted on his feet. "Purebloods, you know."

"Purebloods," said Hermione, slowly. She cast  _Finite_ , just so decisively as she did everything else, and their family trees disappeared. In the newfound dimness, she turned to face Draco. "You heard that Muggleborn witches are halfbloods from whom, exactly?"

Draco hitched one shoulder uncomfortably. "I… don't remember."

"It must've been a pureblood, though," she said, tucking her wand in her hair behind one ear. "We've got to stay interlopers, bastards, half-breeds," Hermione said, "for them to keep on believing what they believe, I suppose." She wriggled a little, as if she meant to shake the words away, warm brown eyes clouded. "I'm glad you found that book so quickly," she said with a frown.

"I was trying to learn more about my family," Draco said, which he figured Hermione would accept.

She did, features softening. "In the end, it doesn't matter."

"Easy to say, now," Draco prodded, not knowing why he kept pressing. "My parents were." He paused, swallowing. " _Heroes_ , and now so am I. Ron's parents are…  _blood traitors_ , a pureblood would say, and so is he. And  _your_  parents like to prove how clever they are."

Hermione issued a little laugh. "All right," she said, looping her arm in his. "So I'm glad. And relieved. And still wondering where my magic comes from…"

"Next research project?" said Draco.

She elbowed him, and laughed, and together they hurried off to Potions.

* * *

The next meeting of the Defense Association was to teach wardcraft, but Hermione insisted everyone learn to defend against the Imperius Curse, and there were still a few younger students, including the youngest Slytherin – and Ron – who hadn't been able to master it.

"Here, angle it like this," Neville was saying to Seamus, gently altering the other boy's hold while Ginny watched and imitated. Unsurprisingly, Neville was quite good at protective spells, though he failed often on the attack, too worried about hurting the others. It made him uncommonly skilled at resisting Imperius and at ward-casting.

"I can't do it!" Draco heard Ron's raised voice carry over the chatter of the others, loud enough that those nearest the little group paused from their wardwork to look up; Pansy arched an eyebrow his way and angled her neck to the little group; the flash in her eye was worried enough that he schooled his own features to calm before elbowing his way towards them.

"Go on," Draco murmured, touching the shoulders of those who'd paused in their labours as he passed. They shook themselves and resumed ward practice, but Hermione was already retorting:

"Then how can we ever  _trust_  you, Ron? How will I ever trust you?"

"I'm still me," Ron said flatly, folding his arms. "And if you can't tell that –"

"We  _saw_  the demonstration!" Hermione cut in. "How on earth would I tell?"

Draco continued to weave his way through the other bodies in the room, catching the edge of not a few concerned looks.

"Look, maybe I'm not so smart as you – or not so good at Dark Magic –"

"It's not Dark to  _throw it off_ , Ron –"

"Oh, so that leaves 'stupid', does it?"

"Hermione! Ron!"

The pair turned to him, then blinked in silence a moment. Hermione's gaze was darting about the room as if she had only just recalled they had an audience.

"I just want us to be safe," Hermione said, urgently. "I  _need_  us to be safe."

"Perhaps Ron needs a short break," Draco offered, neutral.

"I need to get away from  _her_ , you mean," Ron muttered. "She's gone mad for this Dark Arts stuff – practices it in her  _spare time_  –"

Hermione went a bit white. "I do  _not_  –"

"Or she's not so clever as she thinks, if she figures she's kept it a secret," Ron said to Draco, as though Hermione weren't there.

"You have? Have you?" Draco demanded.

Hermione tossed her head and might've stormed off, but a hand at her elbow stopped her, and she turned.

"This is why Muggleborns shouldn't practice Dark Magic," Blaise said, like a fact, gazing down into Hermione's upturned face. "What did Ron say when we started?"

Ron took a step or two forward, brow furrowed. "That Dark Magic does things to you."

The Slytherin drew his wand in a whip-cord motion so swift that no one could react in time to stop him, though Hermione made an abortive little lunge: " _Imperio!_ " Blaise said.

Ron shook his head, frowning, then looked up, his eyes widened in dawning surprise.

"That's what I thought," said Blaise. He looked up at Ron, and the habitual ice in his gaze melted – just for a moment, but it was enough for Ron's features to shift to the Ron that so few were privileged to know: the calm, serious-minded tactician. "You haven't shaken it off up to now, because you're happy to do anything Hermione Granger asks of you. You don't even think to fight, do you?"

Ron sputtered, turning bright red, and Hermione's jaw dropped in the ensuing silence.

"Okay, perhaps it's time to break up for the evening," Draco announced when the pair looked in danger of spontaneous combustion. "Leanne, Dean, Ginny – if you could help with the pillows…"

One by one they filed out the door, with much in the way of significant glances at Draco, Blaise, Ron, and Hermione. Blaise was leaning close to Hermione and Draco stayed well clear of it, though he thought he could hear  _Dark Arts_  and  _change you_ , and Ron was standing close by with his arms folded and nodding at appropriate intervals. Eventually, Hermione's mulishness melted away to sheepishness and she started to nod as well, eyes going suspiciously shiny.

"I don't get it, though," Draco heard Ginny say as she and a knot of girls passed by him at the door. "If there's anything Ron is good at, I thought it'd be fighting Hermione. He sure practices enough."

Draco heard Luna's voice in reply, clear as a bell and without the good sense to hush herself. "I expect that must be why a respite was so irresistible," she opined. "I guess Ron must be quite tired of always being at odds with someone he loves. I'd be if it were me."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, so now you know what Hermione was doing when she was creeping away to the library!
> 
> I know someone will ask, so.
> 
> In the back of my mind, the theory is that, while many genes have an effect on the expression of your magical ability, whether or not you have any ability at all is due to a recessive allele. There would have to have been a witch or wizard on both Hermione's father's and mother's side for this to work - and it could have been generations ago, or millennia ago, so long as that recessive allele kept being passed on down.
> 
> The implications: there's no genetic advantage given to purebloods over Muggleborns or Halfbloods.
> 
> Squibs would then likely be due to a (relatively common) mutation; or due to the inheritance and expression of a gene that 'turns off' the magical gene's expression. In that case, it's an epigenetic shift that is at least theoretically reversible.
> 
> I realize this would mean that there is a 'magic protein' that has receptors... what? In the brain? and the mind boggles.
> 
> This is why we don't mix science and magical theory, everyone.
> 
> This is for those who would've been kept up at night wondering: if one of Hermione's parents wasn't a witch or wizard, then how...? I support your mytho-sciencey selves.


	10. Chapter 10

"Stupid robes won't  _lay right_ ," Ron growled, practically tearing at them.

"Merlin's sake, hang on," Draco said. "Stop  _twitching._ "

Dean snickered as Ron, red-faced, struggled with a garment that was two, squared pieces of fabric with a hole in the top for Ron's head.

"It'll only get all mussed up again on the pitch," said Seamus, elbowing Dean.

"I've got to look good for my fans, haven't I?" Dean demanded, running the comb through a few more times. "When I walk out on that field, I want every woman to want me, and every man to want to  _be_  me."

"It's only a game," Neville said peaceably from the floor, where he was arranging leaves to press between the pages of his Herbology textbook; one branch kept inching away until Neville spoke to it sternly.

"Only a game, he says!" said Ron, flailing both arms. " _Only a game!_ "

Draco tsked. "He's right, actually. And hold still."

"Traitor," said Ron, but he held as Draco twitched his robes into place. "Traitor to Quidditch. Traitor to  _England_. Traitor to – to all men!"

"Don't let Ginny hear ye say that," Seamus advised.

"What?" said Ron, looking genuinely confused. "Why not?"

" _Lunkhead_ ," said Draco, shaking his head. It still baffled him, how Ron could seem so wise one moment and so utterly blinkered the next.

"I hear Vaisey took a Bludger to the head," Seamus offered. " _They'll_  have a substitute Chaser, too. I call that good luck."

Dean looked cheered. "And Malfoy's out, so they –"

"Wait, Malfoy's out?" Draco's chin jerked up.

Ron looked at him askance and stopped tying his trainers. "You didn't know? Malfoy's gone off sick."

Draco didn't believe it for a moment. Draco had no plans beyond the Cabinet and the Necklace, so it had to be something new… Unless Malfoy really had repaired the Cabinet already?  _Could_  he have? Perhaps he'd made some incredible leap, focusing all his time on it as he was…

"Ohhhh, no," Ron said. "I know that look. That's the 'Malfoy's up to something' look."

"I have no such look," said Draco.

"You do, though, mate," said Ron.

"He's right," chimed in Neville.

"It's like, your eyes go all squinty and your jaw firms. It's your general 'justice' face," said Ron, "but with 25% more…  _vindictive spite_."

"Great," said Draco. "Have you been working on your Arithmancy?"

"It's impressive, right?" said Ron, and the other boys nodded in immediate encouragement. "I've totally got fractions and percentages down."

"Well done," said Draco, dragging a hand down his face. "All the same –"

"You think Malfoy is up to something," Ron finished.

"All the same," said Draco, in Potter's best, most seriously heroic tones, "I think Malfoy's up to something."

The whole room groaned.

"I'm panicking," announced Ron, staring at his Quidditch gloves. "I'm putting the left glove on the right hand, Harry. I've gone completely mental." He raised his brows significantly. "And you're speaking to me of Draco Malfoy right now?"

"You're right. You're right, I'm sorry," said Draco, shaking his head. "Quidditch now, Malfoy later."

"Or, maybe – not at all?" said Ron, hopefully.

"Don't ask for miracles, Ron," said Neville, coaxing a leaf back into place.

* * *

"I'll be down in a minute," Draco said as the other boys left the Tower a few minutes later, Neville looking back and clucking his tongue. "You will  _not_  throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower, Weasley, I hear you! Get down and check on the other players!"

He closed the door, waited just a moment to ensure that nobody was going to dash back for a forgotten quill or a scarf for the chill weather, then raced to Potter's trunk and flung it open, tossing a small Potions phial aside to reach that spare bit of parchment.

He scrambled about until he found the Map and unfurled it –

Only to see absolutely nothing on the parchment, whereas before, it had all of Hogwarts laid out. He flipped the large piece of parchment over in his hands, but the nothingness stubbornly remained. If it hadn't been folded in such a damningly specific way, he would've concluded it was a spare bit of parchment with no especial qualities whatever.

So: there was a Charm to it.

Draco drew his wand and tried a few revealing spells, but the parchment remained stubbornly blank, until…

_Mssr. Padfoot wonders who in Merlin's saggy balls keeps poking at this innocent piece of parchment._

"Harry James Potter," Draco said aloud, experimentally.

_Mssr. Padfoot knows a liar when he meets one._

_Mssr. Prongs agrees that, as it takes one to know one, Mssr. Padfoot is not likely mistaken,_ appeared in a second hand, scribed just beneath the first two lines.

Draco waited, but the parchment said nothing else, and the words faded. He mused: it was, after all, something that belonged to Harry Potter. Perhaps Mssrs. Padfoot and Prongs had a Gryffindor sensibility.

"I need this parchment to track a Slytherin plotting to kill someone."

 _Mssr. Mooney seems to recall that this Map was primarily for the purpose of tracking one Severus Snape…_ wrote a third hand.

"Wrong Slytherin," Draco muttered.

 _Mssr. Wormtail would like to add that it was also used to watch out for Professors, in the interests of honesty…_ chimed a fourth.

Draco swallowed. "Wormtail. As in – Pettigrew?"

There was an ominous silence from the Map.

_HE'S ON TO US! RUN!_

_Mssr. Mooney would like to remind Mssr. Prongs of his unfortunate (and terminal) case of two-dimensionality._

"Please," said Draco. "It's very important that I know where this person is –"

_Mssr. Mooney would like to offer a compromise, since this is not in the spirit of mischief, per se. Tell us who you're looking for, and we'll let you know._

"Okay," said Draco. "I'm looking for Draco Malfoy."

_Mssr. Padfoot expresses his shock and amazement that Draco Malfoy is in two places at once. That is, standing on top of 'Harry James Potter' in this very room, and in the Potions Classroom downstairs._

"On  _top_ of… okay, never mind. Thanks." The Potions classroom downstairs implied, at least, that Malfoy wasn't about to let people through the Vanishing Cabinet.

_Mssr. Mooney would like to extend the gracious compliments of Mooney, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs; most people don't thank a spare bit of parchment._

_Mssr. Padfoot would like to suggest that not-Harry-Potter find some way of asking his friends for the password, but such advanced trickery would require deception of Slytherin proportions._

Draco swiftly glanced around the room, confirming that no one had seen this strange comment, but he was still alone. He folded up the Map and stuck it into his pocket -- if it could identify him as Draco Malfoy, he wanted to ensure no one else got their hands on it ever again.  It was a sheer miracle Ron hadn't noticed his name on the Map when he'd been scanning ahead of them for Filch.

Unless he hurried, he would be late for his first Quidditch game.

As Captain.

He didn't have the time to confront Malfoy, and with the help of the Map, he could manage to locate him again later.

There was one thing he could do, however, and still (perhaps) make it to the field on time. He dashed down the Seventh Floor Corridor to summon the Room of Hidden Things. He dropped a button inside the Vanishing Cabinet and was reassured to find that it stayed in precisely the same place: the Cabinet was still a dud.

Relieved to know that no Death Eaters would be storming the Castle anytime soon, Draco scurried down to the Quidditch pitch, lungs burning, coming to a swift halt just outside the changing rooms. He took a moment to gain a breath, putting on a determined face before pushing in, where the whole team was waiting.

"About time!" shouted Ginny.

"Sorry, sorry. Unavoidable delay," he said, while Ron mouthed  _Malfoy?!_  and Draco shrugged ruefully. "Coote, keep an eye out for Peakes, you're doing much better, there, but I want you to keep your fellow Beater in mind."

The new Beater nodded intently. "Yes, Cap'n!"

"Good man. Weasley, remember your tryout."

"Yes, Cap'n," said Ron, grinning.

"Robins, remember the formation we practised, and don't let the Slytherins get to you," Draco ordered Demelza, who he'd seen grow tight-jawed and teary-eyed during constructive criticism.

"Ginevra, I doubt you'll listen to anything I say, or that there's anything I need to tell you, so just keep on being brilliant."

Ginevra – and everyone else – laughed, the too-loud laughter of nervous people finally given leave to let off some steam.

Time for the speech, Draco thought. He took a deep breath and folded his hands before him.

"You were a great team long before I became Captain," Draco said. "You know how to trust each other. We're short one, but they're short two, so don't give them an inch. Let's show them," he said, and nearly stumbled under a wave of vertigo as what he might say as Draco Malfoy diverged so strongly from the role he was playing that he was briefly nauseated, but then his two worlds snapped miraculously together again, emotional double-vision resolving to one truth. "Let's show them that when you hit Gryffindor from behind, we swell up as one fist to  _smite_  them out of the sky."

There was a moment of silence in which Draco feared he'd gone too far before they were all screaming and pouring out onto the field.

Draco was left standing alone, trembling under the force of his conviction, as though he'd really meant it, and he had to remind himself:

He didn't mean it. But he did  _feel_  it. That was Potter's fury, Potter's sense of Gryffindor loyalty. Potter's heroic streak, too, he suspected – making him feel as though any injury to one of his own was a personal failure and a betrayal that had to be avenged. Enough of Potter was left to still show up on the Map; enough of Potter was left to make him feel this way. That was all.

"It's useful," said Draco, under his breath, nodding to himself, the crowd roaring as the rest of his team took the field. "It's useful for now, hold on to it."

He let himself feel it: the thump in his breast and the flush of blood pumping too-swiftly; a tightness in his chest that loosened with a warm rush and swell as he watched his team fly.

"You can do this," he told himself.

Draco Malfoy mounted his broom and rose into the air, and the crowd roared with adulation, rising to their feet to clap for Harry Potter.

* * *

Zachariah Smith was commentating, and he was being about as fair as anyone was in a match of Gryffindor versus Slytherin, Draco thought. He recognized Harper as Malfoy's replacement, which was… interesting. He'd always struck Draco as particularly slow-witted and manipulable.

Ginny was obeying orders by being fabulous, scoring four goals, one after the other - Draco made a mental note to have her take the new Chasers aside and train them up a bit - if she showed a talent for it, maybe she'd be Captain in her seventh year. And Ron was Keeping like nobody's business, grim-faced and resolute.

Draco caught sight of the snitch about a half an hour in. Before Harper could spot it, too, Draco queried, "so, how much  _did_  Malfoy pay you to take his spot?" – and shot off after the Snitch like a bolt.

It was no surprise when he caught the fluttering little thing in his fingers two full broom-lengths ahead of a furious Harper and cheers erupted around them... but Harper followed, landing and stomping off towards Draco and the other celebrating Gryffindors. He looked mean enough to cast  _Avada_.

"Bunch of blood traitors and Mudbloods!" he shouted. " _Cheaters_!"

"Harry didn't cheat," said Ginny, striding up so close that her shoulder pressed against Draco's. "He shouted that you took a bribe, that's all. And it must be the truth, to have gotten you so bothered." Her voice changed as she went on, dripping with false sympathy. "Did Malfoy say he'd only pay you if no one found out? That's a rookie mistake, Harper. But then you never were the brightest  _Lumos_  on the wand."

Harper drew his wand and  _fumbled_ it before bringing it to bear.

Ginny scoffed and cast a Bat-Bogey hex, easy as falling out of bed. It hit Harper square in the nose, and he fell back, cursing.

Draco kept a careful eye on the other Slytherins, but none seemed particularly inclined to come to Harper's aid. Blaise was innocently examining a goalpost for no good reason.

Harper cursed and stomped away, making the other Slytherins flush a bit. Draco knew the feeling of reflected House embarrassment. But after a moment, Slytherin Captain Urquhart approached the Gryffindors, hand extended.

Brows raised, Draco shook, all too aware of Urquhart's several inches over him, and the intimidatingly chiselled planes of his face.

"Good game," he said. "Weasley's coming on, isn't he?"

"Thank you," said Draco. "Rough luck, missing Malfoy and Vaisey in the same game." He nodded at Urquhart, who nodded back.

"What's…  _happening_?" Draco could hear Ron hiss to Ginny.

Draco turned to head back into the changing rooms, but Urquhart kept pace. "I've heard about your little duelling club," he said.

"Yeah?" said Ginny. "What about it?"

"Yeah," said Ron. "What about it?"

"Well," said Urquhart, folding his arms over his chest, "I heard a vicious rumour that Slytherins attend."

Draco kept his eyes trained dead ahead, resisting the urge to stare at Blaise, who was explaining something to Crabbe and Goyle using the requisite hand motions required for either of them to comprehend anything beyond the most basic of instructions.

"And?" said Draco, folding his arms.

Urquhart shifted on his feet. "And Weasley's in it?"

"Both Weasleys are in it," said Draco.

Urquhart stared the Weasleys in question up and down and grunted. "Okay. Let me know what I gotta do to be in. We got some cousins on the Dark side of things, but my mum's… fragile… since the first war. I gotta look after her, and that means I gotta survive."

Draco stared. "I," he said.

"You're a Gryffindor," Urquhart explained, thumbing at his nose. "You need a good and virtuous reason I wanna join. My mum's a good reason, and I'm not making it up. She's okay, don't get me wrong, just a little… scattered. You c'n ask anybody. Everyone in my year knows."

"All right," said Draco, because Slytherin House kept that secret, but every Snake in every year knew about Urquhart's mum, both that she was his greatest weakness and that he'd successfully flatten anyone who insulted her, no matter how long or hard the battle or how many tries it took. "Tell Blaise to take you," he added, because he wasn't giving the new guy a coin, and because Blaise could stand being taken down a peg or two: Blaise, who always thought himself so damned inscrutable, could stand to be Harry Potter's errand boy, once or twice.

"Sure thing, Potter. Thanks," said Urquhart, and turned to the other Gryffindors. "Good game," he said again, whacking the doorframe of the Gryffindor changing rooms with a loose fist, then heading off towards the Castle.

"Hang on," Draco told Ron. "Be right back."

"Oi," Ron called after him, but didn't follow. As Draco hurried along, he still could hear Ron huff and start to describe some of his best saves to his teammates.

"We know, Weasley – we were there," Draco heard Demelza sigh as he darted forward to catch up to Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle.

"Hey," he called out, and the three turned.

Blaise looked at Draco as though he were a House Elf who'd interrupted a fine dinner party by asking a direct question. Crabbe and Goyle looked gobsmacked, too, but then - they often did.

"Why'd Malfoy beg off?" Draco inquired, in typically blunt, Gryffindorish fashion.

"Wouldn't you like to know," said Blaise blandly.

_Bet if Granger were here, he'd change that tune right quick. Even Weasley._

"I would like to know; that's why I asked. And don't pretend to know the answer, Blaise; I was asking Crabbe and Goyle, here. Well?" he asked, folding his arms.

"He was sick," said Crabbe; at the same time, Goyle said, "he had things to do."

Blaise looked as though he would have liked to palm his face. Instead, he managed to look faintly pained.

"I assume it's the latter," said Draco. "I know he wasn't in the Hospital Wing. He was working on a Potion, right?"

Looking uncomfortable, the pair shrugged.

"He doesn't," said Goyle, slowly. His features were pinched with thought, or else pain – for the Crabbes and Goyles of the world, Draco thought, they might have been one and the same. "He doesn't much talk to us anymore."

Draco swallowed. "Oh." Of course – Malfoy might be asking Crabbe and Goyle to be decoys, but they probably didn't even know what he was doing in the Room of Requirement.

"Shut up! We aren't supposed to  _talk to Potter_ ," Crabbe muttered, elbowing Goyle.

"They don't know anything," Blaise muttered. "They're barely wizards. They're failing every course. They'll be booted out, soon, unless something changes."

Draco's gaze snapped back to the other boys, whose faces were growing bright pink, but they didn't protest. Goyle shifted on his feet, as though he should quite like to hit Blaise, but knew it wasn't a very good idea. "Are you failing out? I didn't know that," Draco muttered, raking his fingers through his hair.

"Everybody knows that," Goyle muttered miserably.

And Draco supposed that if someone had asked him, he might've laughed and agreed that Crabbe and Goyle probably couldn't stay at Hogwarts very much longer with their burden of blundering stupidity; but he wouldn't have put two and two together and understood how this translated to pressure to join the Death Eaters without Blaise all but telling him so. With intelligence and talent, the boys might've been able to make their own way out from underneath their fathers' thumbs. As it was…

The Potter palimpsest  _nudged_  so hard that Draco almost stumbled forward.

"Potter is teaching a lot of people Defense," Blaise opined. "Reckon he'd let you in if you asked nicely."

Crabbe whipped around to stare at Blaise, as well he should, Draco thought. He himself wasn't quite sure what Blaise was up to. Goyle, though, was still staring at Draco.

"One less class to be failing," Blaise added, temptingly.

"We're not supposed to talk to Potter," Crabbe reiterated, but in Blaise's direction.

"Why not?" Blaise said, with a shrug. "I talk to Potter. Pansy may actually be  _fond_  of Potter. Even Millie talks to Potter these days. Why don't you go on ahead? Think about it. Perhaps," he said wisely, clapping Crabbe on the shoulder, "don't bring it up to Draco."

The pair lumbered off, and Blaise turned to Draco, thrusting his hands in his pockets and rocking back a bit on his heels. "Well?" he said. "Aren't I a proper recruiter?"

Draco sighed. "I'm not sure if you just did me a favour or  _not_ , Zabini."

"They really will fail out of school," he said. "They've never had a moment's help except from Malfoy, and he seems." Blaise took a breath and tried to make himself look genuine for once. His face wasn't made for it, and so he ended up looking like a bit player in a poor stage drama. "Different. Distant."

Draco knew all too well why Malfoy was suddenly 'different' and 'distant' and refused to take the bait. "Their fathers are Death Eaters," he said. "At least I know your family's not."

"Do you?" said Blaise.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Parkinson's parents aren't, and neither are the Bulstrodes, no matter what sort of talk they like around the dinner table. And I think the Slytherins with no – or distant – Death Eater ties are going to have almost as much trouble as me and my friends." He frowned. "I just don't know why you care so much," he said. "Crabbe and Goyle have never been your particular friends."

Blaise jerked his head towards the Castle, and Draco strode alongside him; he itched under his Quidditch leathers, his sweat now icy against his skin. He stuck his hands under his arms, thinking fondly of the hot showers in Gryffindor Tower.

"They haven't, no," agreed Blaise. "You know a lot more about Slytherin politics than I would have figured." He smiled ruefully, and for once the pleasant expression sat properly on his face. "I suppose Slytherin House doesn't keep its secrets so well as we might like to think."

"I've been paying attention. I doubt it's all so clear to anyone who hasn't lived with you for six years."

Blaise eyed him uncertainly. "If I may say, Potter, Malfoy isn't the only one who's been different, lately."

"You may say," said Draco, but his heart was thumping loudly in his chest and he had to forcibly calm himself so that Zabini wouldn't see the jumping pulse at his throat.

"Saw you talking to Urquhart, too," Zabini said. "Should we start calling you an honorary Slytherin?"

A dozen thoughts flickered through Draco's mind at the speed of light –  _but Potter_  was _meant to be Slytherin – yes, absolutely – no, and how dare you –_

"Am I meant to take offence?" Draco said lightly. "I can't say I'm especially ambitious, but I'd be a fool to look down on it. Those who invent, accomplish, and make progress in the world have to be spurred on by something, don't they?"

While Blaise was still mulling this over, Draco went in for the kill.

"I've seen you talking to Hermione and Ron a great deal," he mused. "And even me, of your very own volition, come to think. Should I start calling you an honorary Gryffindor?"

Blaise actually  _sputtered_ , which was the greatest reward Draco could have ever hoped for.

"What's your interest in Granger, anyway? You know she's a Muggleborn witch… unless you missed it while you were staring at her chest," Draco hissed, and then jolted back, startled. Sure, he'd noticed Blaise's attention to Hermione, and he couldn't say he was pleased, but…

"Her  _chest_?" Blaise shot back. "Granger's gorgeous, sure – but she's  _brilliant_ , more's the point, clever and sharp and –  _commanding_ ," said Blaise, and then flushed to such an extent that even with his dark skin, it was obvious he was mortified. "And I don't care if she's a halfblooded bastard," he added, defiantly.

"Merlin's sky and stars," said Draco. "Are you in  _love_?"

Blaise clammed up tight, but his cheeks were still bright pink, and Draco could see the leap of his pulse in  _his_ throat.

If someone had asked Draco two months ago, he'd have thought tall, cool, implacable Blaise falling for the Mudblood Granger would've made for a preposterous scenario. But now that he  _knew_  Granger, he could see it: parts of her were so contained and orderly, and yet – her passion and magnificence sometimes spilt over in bright shocks of brilliance and heroism and love, and then she was something to behold. He could see her standing next to tall, cool, implacable Blaise, now, forcing him out of his methodical patterns, him following after her in wonder and delight; her leaning on his narrow strength.

But that left Ronald Weasley out of the equation entirely, and there was something so sorrowful and empty in the idea that it left him blinking in surprise and feeling weirdly bereft.

"Listen," said Draco, taking Blaise by the elbow, impulsively. Blaise looked up at him in surprise, dark eyes blinking wide. "It's all right that you are. It's  _good_  you are. She's my friend, and I think," he said. "Not that my opinion matters, because Hermione can for sure make up her own mind, and have a go at changing mine, after – but I think you'd be lovely together. Really," he added, because Blaise's mouth had a subtle downturn that made it seem as though he thought he was being condescended to. "But Ron," he said, and squeezed the hand that was still pressed to Blaise's elbow.

"I'm making friends with him," said Blaise, swiftly.

"I know you are. Well," said Draco, relinquishing the other boy's arm. "I just don't want anyone to get their hearts broken."

"Somebody always does," said Blaise, his smile tilting to bitter. "And all the same, I'd rather it wasn't me."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I throw no one under the bus: I have affection for all the characters, and don't plan on destroying one character to make others happy. But if you're a DIE FOR MAH SHIP person, you may wish to JUMP ship right abooout... here.
> 
> For those lacking authorial context, Secret of Slytherin is a novel about how prejudice is a powerful, destructive force whose only counter is love - not exactly news, since this is also the main theme of the HP Universe canon. Yet I had people popping on complaining the gen bromance was gay and wrong. The two male main characters had a PLATONIC, UNROMANTIC deep connection and even that made some people storm off in a homophobic huff, which is not a kind of carriage - it is a kind of temper tantrum. Their usual kind.
> 
> (+100 points to Gryffindor for who can say "I understood that reference".)
> 
> If you judge who people love for ANY reason beyond issues of consent - seriously, what are you still doing here? There's the door.
> 
> *peers around*. Are the creeps gone?
> 
> Good.
> 
> ILU guys.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh one of my favorite chapters!

December brought the first session of the expanded D.A., replete with upper-level Slytherins. To their credit, after a few nudges and sidelong glances, the old guard opened their arms.

Urquart, a true Slytherin, quickly sussed out that Ginny and Neville were second only to Harry, Hermione, and Ron in skill. He took to listening to them gravely, looking to them for the proper stances and wand movements. He wisely ignored Blaise and Pansy, despite their relative skill. And, being a seventh-year, the younger Slytherins observed him silently for a few minutes before swiftly following his example. Draco thought the tiny blonde might be developing a crush on the older boy.

Granger had her own coterie, of course, and was taking a break from the Imperius Curse to demonstrate  _Riddikulus_ , despite their lack of Boggart. "That's  _one_  way," Draco heard Pansy say. "The way Professor Lupin showed us. But there's another," she added, and reached forward to adjust Hermione's hold on her wand. Draco meandered close to watch.

He reflected that just a few weeks ago, a Slytherin reaching for a Gryffindor's wand might have had a very different result than Ron leaning forward to peer more closely and adjusting the hold on his own wand, then showing the others.

"What's the advantage?" Hermione was saying, switching back and forth between the two grips.

"Spell just comes out stronger," Pansy said with a shrug. "Draco and I," she said, then faltered. "I figured it out one summer, that's all," she said.

"Did you?" Hermione said, kindly. "That's brilliant, Pansy."

"I am, rather," Pansy said haughtily, but she brightened, and Draco caught her flipping her wand from loosely held and back to the improvised stance several times, with a glow of satisfaction on her face.

The next December morning, after a most successful D.A. session – in which everyone but a few in the youngest years had managed to throw off the Imperius Curse while the rest focused on wordless Summoning Charms and  _Riddikulus_  – Draco entered the Great Hall in time to see Luna Lovegood scoop up a pastry and head for the doors.

It was cold and snowy out, so Draco cast  _Accio_ on his cloak and scarf before darting after her. "Luna. Luna!" he called out into the air. Thick, cloying flakes fat as fairies drifted down to land on his dark hair; he could make out the figure of Luna in the distance, pausing, turning.

She moved back to him, the snow parting to reveal her curious features. "Draco. Hullo," she said, and it was a strange snap to hear his name spoken aloud, like waking from a compelling dream. It brought him up short.

"Harry," she said, "if that's better?"

"I think it is," said Draco. "Aloud, I mean. Not in general."

"Of course not in general," she said, peering at him intently. "You've been eating your greens."

Draco stared until he remembered her adjuration regarding crucifers and Wrackspurts.

"The Wrackspurts are mostly gone," she added, blithely. "Unless they've wriggled in, that is."

"Wriggled… in?" said Draco, already regretting asking.

"Wrackspurts can sometimes burrow very deep," she said, "and lead to a profounder, almost existential confusion." She leaned forward, arms clasped behind her back. "You aren't experiencing any  _existential confusion_ , are you, Harry?"

Draco's lips quirked, and he rocked back on his heels, still high and flush with the success of the D.A. meeting the evening before. "I'm living somebody else's life. What do you think?"

"I think a great many things, most of which aren't considered acceptable to share," Luna said meditatively, radish earrings swaying as she bobbed upright again.

"Don't you want to stay inside?" Draco said. "It's pretty out, but –"

"Certainly, I  _might_ ," said Luna, "on any other day. But, you see – today is the day of the migration of the Great Hiffalemples, and I'm bound and determined to see them off." She nodded at Draco and turned to head off again into the snow.

"Do – do you want company?" Draco inquired. He could picture, with disturbing clarity, Luna deciding to lie down in the snow, or getting lost, or twisting her ankle.

She paused, then spun on her heel. "Well, I don't know if I do. No one's offered to do that, before. Are you sure?"

"Potter didn't?"

"No. Someone might suspect you aren't him, if you stick around. Entirely. You know."

Draco shifted from one foot to the other. "I suppose I don't care if Potter didn't have the decency to ensure you didn't fall into a hole," he said.

She laughed, threading her arm through his. "Well! You always did strike me as someone who would keep me from falling down a hole," she confided as they headed off towards the Forbidden Forest.

"Potter seems the sort to protect puppies and kittens and intrepid magical creature explorers alike," offered Draco, holding his hand up to help Luna light on an overturned log.

She paused and turned to face him from her high perch, near-colourless eyes wide in her pale face. "No." She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. "Draco – I mean  _you_."

Draco scoffed. "You're the only one who knows who I am, and you persist in being kind to me. Why is that?"

"Because I like to be," Luna replied. "I don't think a lot of people have been nice to you; and maybe that's because you're not so very nice, most of the time." She leapt down to the other side of the log, landing solidly on both feet; her galoshes squelched in a way five-year-old Draco would have found satisfying, indeed; and they proceeded, closer, now, to the Forbidden Forest. "But really, it's no excuse for others not to be kind."

Draco laughed helplessly, struck with the kind of inner dizziness Luna seemed to conjure whenever he spoke to her. "Isn't it?"

"Absolutely not. How kind one chooses to be has nothing to do with those around them." She gazed at him with sternness on her brow. "You can't let others shape your life that way. I choose to be kind."

"Hrm," said Draco. Then, impulsively: "would you like to come to Slughorn's Christmas party with me? As friends, I mean."

Luna blinked, then blinked again before a delighted smile broke across her face. "That's a  _marvellous_  idea!" she enthused. "Why, there will be all  _sorts_  of intriguing creature experts there. My father will love to hear about it if I manage to corner Finglebert Smith into an explanation of the Mufflewhump coverup of 1912."

"That's exactly why I asked," said Draco.

"Oh, I know that's not why you  _asked_ ," Luna said, still bouncing on her toes in excitement, leaping a bit as she darted forward under the trees. "Why, hardly anyone knows about the Mufflewhump coverup –"

"Because it was covered up?" said Draco.

"Exactly. Oh, you're making fun of me again," Luna said neutrally.

"Not at all," protested Draco. "Since I have no idea regarding the Mufflewhump coverup, I am in no position to judge."

Luna's smile reappeared, a slim dawn of happiness across her pale cheeks. "What should I wear? I know most purebloods are very particular about that sort of thing. I heard Pansy Parkinson say she wouldn't leave the house for a party in anything less than Parisian robes." She looked at him with raised brows. "Do I need Parisian robes?"

"No," said Draco. "It is fancy-dress, so you need dress robes. But I doubt anyone beyond the snootiest of purebloods is going to give a fig for their national origins."

"Draco Malfoy, you  _are_  the snootiest of purebloods," Luna reminded him. "Well. No. I mean – sometimes. Occasionally, in the past, you were. Except for when you weren't."

"Very well, then  _even_  the snootiest of purebloods won't care," Draco laughed. "Wear whatever you like."

He wondered if he'd just doomed himself by saying such a thing, so he added, "perhaps Hermione will help you. She's the reason I have all new jumpers and trousers; she's rather good at that sort of thing."

"Oh," said Luna airily. "Well, I suppose that's a plan." She paused. "Hermione said that Romilda Vane was angling to go with you?"

"Was she?" said Draco. "I didn't notice…"

"Sometimes, I thought Harry knew a lot more about people than he let on. That he just operated primarily on a principle of non-interference."

"Ah," said Draco, because the idea of understanding the people around him and saying nothing about any of it seemed… very aligned to Draco's developing picture of secret-Slytherin Harry Potter. He snorted. "I suppose I know more about Potter now than I ever did, before." He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. "Maybe more than anyone I've ever known."

"Did you know how lonesome you were, before?" Luna inquired, squeezing his arm. "I only ask because didn't know I was, until the D.A. Because you can't miss what you never had. But then, Harry spoke to me,  _saw_  me, and then everyone around him spoke to me and  _saw_  me, and I found I quite liked it." Luna paused to peer into the hollow of a tree – looking for Great Hiffalemples ready to migrate, Draco supposed – words still tripping forward. "I found it quite hard to go back to being invisible and inaudible again. I was right glad when you decided to reconvene the DA." She frowned, thoughtful. "I wonder if Harry would have?"

"I," said Draco. He swallowed. "I'm sure he would have."

But something was different about the company of Luna Lovegood, and when she didn't fill the silence, when she held the quiet for him, when her near-colourless eyes blinked up at him, full of open patience, he had to answer her.

"I didn't know it," he said. "Until Ron and Hermione, I didn't know what it was like, to have friends."

"And to think, now you've got loads, and so have I!" Luna enthused, squeezing his arm a bit.

"To think," said Draco, still feeling dizzy and strange; that now-familiar tightness in his chest was loosening and filling with warmth, and he thought that if the feeling kept building, he might fill the wood with wild laughter, or cry.

"O _h, look!_ " she suddenly said, with such intensity that Draco's attention immediately whipped in the direction of her trembling, pointing finger. " _Tracks!_ "

 

* * *

 

When Draco returned with Luna, Hermione was arranging her notes and laying out her Muggle highlighters (clever invention, those) and quill and ink in preparation to study. Her hands moved efficiently across the desk, but she listened with her usual attention when Draco told her he was taking Luna to the party.

"That's a brilliant idea," said Hermione. "I've a bit of trouble, there, myself."

"Oh?" said Draco. "I thought you were going with Ron."

"I was. I  _am_ ," said Hermione, moving her pink highlighter a millimetre to the right. "It's just," she said. "Blaise also asked. I  _told him no_ ," she emphasized as she pulled one sheet of parchment out of her stack, peered at it, and placed it on the top, smoothing it with both hands. "I told him I'd already asked Ron."

"Oh," said Draco.

"Even though I hadn't, yet, which wasn't exactly fair," she allowed, moving her pink highlighter a millimetre to the left.

"All's fair," Draco replied. "I'm sure Blaise would say the same. You wanted to take Ron."

Hermione frowned at her papers and tapped them to straighten her already-military-grade lines. "Well, yes…" she said, and suddenly Draco felt as though she'd waited for Ron out of loyalty and not greater desire at all. "Oh! That reminds me," she said, gaze darting up for the first time. "Vane and a bunch of the other twittering Fifth-years were talking about brewing love potions. You'd best be careful."

"She already offered me a Gillywater and then chocolates," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "I'd be a fool to eat or drink anything she handed me."

Hermione nodded absently. "Anyway," she said, moving the pink highlighter a third time, "I'm just going to study a bit and then I'm going straight to bed."

"Don't stay up too late," Draco said, and it occurred to him he'd never said that to anybody before, and certainly not with such a tender, familiar pang. He hurried away to the boys' dorm and swiftly cleaned his teeth and changed into pyjamas before scrambling into bed. He lay there, bedcurtains closed, thinking in the dark.

He thought,  _Ron and Hermione are my best friends_ , and the words didn't feel strange anymore, not their given names or even the Potter-palimpsest cosy, comfortable,  _secure_ feeling that swept along in the wake of the words. He thought of Luna saying even Potter had never gone on an expedition with her. He thought of how the high mark on the essay he'd received in Transfiguration had lit a coal of proud pleasure in his chest,  _Harry Potter_  scrawled across the top. He thought of his Quidditch team's success ( _his, his Captaincy; Potter hadn't even gotten a go_ ) and Blaise and Pansy and Crabbe and Goyle and Urquhart and all the other Slytherins just starting to look to him, and it was beginning to feel like more than a borrowed life, now, or a stolen one. It was beginning to feel like  _his_.

These were Draco's thoughts, cocooned in warmth, the wind howling outside loud enough to rattle the glass.

 

* * *

 

Ron stared into the full-length mirror in the Gryffindor boys' dormitories. He wore a threadbare tee shirt and denims, bare feet pale against the floorboards, and his expression was sunken with despair. "You'd think that after two years, I'd have managed to find new dress robes," he said, gripping his fire-red hair and tugging upward.

Draco thought of Weasley's maroon dress robes with their acres of lace at the sleeve and hem and coughed; Ron shot him a betrayed glare. "Sorry. Sorry," Draco said, schooling his features. He tilted his head to one side, thinking carefully. "All right. Ditch the robes and go Muggle."

"I… what?" said Ron, still staring into the mirror. His hair stood absolutely on end and he made no move to pat it down.

"The new things we bought in Hogsmeade," Draco reminded him. "We're the same size, more or less. Wear the nicer jumper and even if your trousers have holes, it'll be all right."

"All those purebloods at Slughorn's, though," Ron said, shifting. "They'll stare."

"You and Hermione, me and Luna – they were already going to stare."

Ron huffed a laugh. "All right, I reckon if I showed up in fancy dress robes, they'd just ask where I'd stolen 'em."

"Or figure I bought them for you," Draco supplied. "Would that be so bad?"

He'd always wondered. Draco didn't figure Potter for the stingy sort, but Weasley still wore such threadbare, common things.

Well. But so did Potter. Perhaps it was a case of not knowing it mattered at all.

"If people saw  _that_ , they'd begin to say I was only your friend because you kept on giving me stuff. People say it enough just 'cause you're famous. If you also began buying me fancy dress robes…" Ron grinned suddenly. "Why, they'd figure I was your kept man."

Draco grabbed a nearby pillow and whacked him a few times.

"All right, all right! The hair," Ron protested, and made a show of smoothing it down… before spoiling the picture when he yanked his tee shirt over his head, mussing it again. He threw on an old collared button-down, and covered it with Draco's newest jumper – the softest grey one – and it made him look quite serious and grown-up, even with his oldest denims on underneath. When Draco used his wand to snip off some of the most offensive dangling cotton threads, Ron looked positively put together.

Draco had never had to 'make do' once in his life, and so he was pleased a little out-of-proportion with the results.

"What d'you suppose Hermione will wear?" Ron muttered. "Something incredible, probably… remember that dress at the Yule Ball? Merlin, I thought Pansy's eyes were going to pop out of her head…"

"I do remember it." Draco had looked up from Pansy's features to see the vision on the stair that was Hermione Granger and he'd thought – instantly and irretrievably – that it simply wasn't fair for her to be  _so clever_ , and well-connected, and poised, and  _gorgeous, too_  – that it went against the edicts of pureblood supremacy and thwarted the law of averages. It had been the sort of warm, humorous thought that oughtn't to have belonged to Draco Malfoy in regards to Hermione Granger, and so he'd immediately wished he could scrub the sentiment out of his mind with lye soap.

But it was all right to think, now, that she'd looked a vision and made every girl in a twenty-metre radius green with jealousy. A little relaxing, even, to admit it without having to self-censor: Granger was an absolute catch, and he was glad she and Ron were getting on.

"This isn't as formal," he added. "You'll do, Ron."

"High praise, that," said Ron.

Draco looked at them side-by-side in the mirror and hid a wince. Ron  _did_  look just fine for a nice dinner party, provided he didn't stand next to Draco, whose old dress robes fit just fine… or maybe better than fine, especially across the shoulders. He considered changing into something more like what Ron wore, but then he thought of Luna and her talk of Parisian robes, and strongly suspected she'd be dressed to the nines. Not wearing your best to an event like this would thumb his nose at Slughorn and Luna in one go, and even assuaging Ron's feelings of inadequacy wasn't worth insulting the girl he'd invited.

Luna probably wouldn't care if he showed up in a tiara, but he didn't want anyone  _else_ thinking he wasn't pleased to go with her.

"Reckon this is the best it's going to get," Ron said mournfully as gave one last, tug at a fire-red lock before lowering his arms to his sides.

Ron and Draco emerged to see that most of the Gryffindors were in the Common Room, watching the others get ready for the party, some looking supportive, others intrigued, and a few more, transparently jealous. Luna and Hermione were seated around the fireplace, chatting with a few of the others; but when they saw the boys, they stood.

Luna wore a set of silvery spangled robes that were quite nice, and Draco let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, offering her his arm. It took her a moment longer than he thought it might to notice it, and then to notice what he meant by it; but then, after beat of startled incomprehension, she slipped her arm into his.

Hermione wore robes of brocade red-and-gold, wild curly hair piled atop her head with wisps free, rosy-cheeked and looking the very spirit of Christmas. Ron gawped a bit at his good fortune, silent in awe, which deepened the pink on Hermione's cheek. " 'Bye!" Hermione said blithely to those gathered around the fire, and the four exited the portrait to make their way down to the dungeons.

"I'm  _ever_  so excited,  _Harry_ ," Luna said, placing peculiar emphasis on his name. "I've never been to one of Slughorn's parties before."

"Nor have I," Draco started to say, but she wasn't finished.

Frowning, Luna added, "I haven't been to any parties, actually, not since I was a little girl. Isn't that strange?"

"Or not," Ron muttered under his breath, and Hermione elbowed him.

"Isn't it marvellous to be going to a Christmas party in a beautiful new robe?" Luna enthused to Hermione. "It's a very special feeling, like a dozen sunsets all rolled into one, don't you think? I wish I could bottle it!"

"Well, Professor Snape did claim you could bottle fame and brew glory," said Hermione, "though I always wondered what he meant by it."

"When did he say that?" Ron inquired.

"First lesson," said Hermione, "first speech."

Draco recalled.

"How do you," said Ron, shaking his head. "Merlin's sake, Hermione, what your brain must be like."

Hermione flushed, silent, and Draco searched for a new topic.

"Do we know who else has been invited?" he wondered.

"There's a vampire," said Ron, "or so I hear."

"Like the Minister?" said Luna, but Hermione added, "and his biographer. Sometimes the Wizarding World is still rather strange."

Draco couldn't believe he hadn't thought of this, yet. "Malfoy?"

Luna looked up sharply. "Nooo," she said, at length. "I checked."

"You  _checked_?" said Hermione. "Why on earth did you  _check_? Has he been bothering you, Luna?"

But luckily they'd arrived at Slughorn's office, and Luna wasn't obligated to answer.

Slughorn had predictably expanded his offices for the party, Draco observed. Pinned to the centre of the broadened ceiling were great emerald, crimson, and gold strips of cloth, which twisted as they extended to the walls, making the entire place look as though it were the inside of a vast circus tent. Pinned directly beneath the centre of the ceiling was a great golden lamp with crimson glass; the inside of the tent was blood-tinged and the whole office was uncomfortably warm. Loud music dominated by stringed instruments rang out from everywhere and nowhere.

"Arabian  _Nights_?" Draco said aloud, disgusted.

For once, he and Hermione Granger were on precisely the same wavelength; her nose crinkled as she looked at the décor and muttered, "how  _distasteful_."

Though probably she was thinking along the lines of cultural appropriation and Draco was thinking mostly  _tacky_ , he'd call it a win.

"Are those live fairies inside?" she went on, and the quartet turned their attention up above, to the lamp over their heads. Clearly the answer was  _yes_ , and even Draco – who generally could not care less for magical creatures or even non-purebloods as a class – found the thought of any thinking creature getting captured and imprisoned to shine light on a  _party_ … unsettling.

Draco blinked himself free of the preoccupation. It didn't bear thinking about. Not that he'd ever thought about it before, really. So it must have been the Potter palimpsest, nudging him to care for orphaned and harrassed little creatures, even beyond those who were Wizardkind.

"Let's free them," said Luna, and drew her wand. " _Alohomora!_ "

The fairies exited the lamp and darted about the place; witches and wizards, always alert to the possibility of suddenly whizzing objects, ducked out of the way, blasé. One fairy flew to a nearby carafe of mead and teetered before falling in, face-first; another made for a cupcake and buried her face in frosting. Most whizzed immediately away, but one landed on Luna's shoulder and buzzed or hissed or maybe  _said something_  before zooming off.

"Trust you, Luna," said Ron with a grin. "Hey… mead!"

Hermione rolled her eyes Dracoward – probably at Weasley's easy distractability – and trailed behind.

"Harry! Harry, my boy," said Slughorn, emerging from a fug of pipe-smoke and making his way over to Draco and Luna. "So glad you could  _finally_ make it," he added with a sly jollity that fooled Draco not one bit. "And who is this?"

"This is my friend, Luna Lovegood," Draco said.

"Lovegood, Lovegood," said Slughorn, as though mining his memory for Lovegood-related treasure. As sure as a Niffler, he retrieved some, features lighting with memory. "Lovegood! Maiden name Hestia, of course, brilliant witch. I was so sorry to hear it when she was lost. Charms accident, was it?" Slughorn was smiling benignly at Luna, who'd begun to shrink away. "Brilliant but careless, Pandora was. You look quite a bit like her, can't fathom why I never noticed it before."

All Draco's cleverness dropped away, and his sharp tongue failed him. He could feel Luna at his side going quiet and chill, like a dying star.

"Harry, m'boy," said Slughorn, appearing to forget Luna entirely. "Come, come, there are so many people I'd like you to meet!" And he reached out to snag Draco's arm.

How did Potter deal with people grabbing at him,  _claiming_  him? Draco yanked his arm away with a swift, decisive motion. "Think I'd better see to my date, first. Don't you?"

"Oh! Yes. Of course, of course," Slughorn said, hearty cheerfulness showing signs of strain. "He's a keeper, Miss Lovegood! Or a Seeker, anyway," he said, winking and hailing someone indubitably famous from across the room.

Draco turned fully to face Luna. "Are you all right?"

Luna looked serene as ever, but her gaze had gone a little more dreamy and unfocused than usual. "I already knew my mother was dead."

"Do you want to leave?"

Some animation returned to Luna's features, and she gazed about. "Oh, we only just arrived."

"But it's ruined," said Draco, helplessly.

Now her spark returned, leavened with determination. "Not at all. Why, look around us! All these people, everywhere – each of them with his or her own story, journeys, dreams! A party is a most adventuresome place to be."

"So long as you're still in an adventuresome sort of mood…" Draco muttered, raking his hair back.

She looked up at him, eyes crinkling with pleasure. "I am!" And she reached out to clasp his hand. "And I'm very glad you decided to take me here as a friend," she tacked on.

"Once more into the breach?" he said.

"Onward," she agreed, and – swinging arms as though they really were about to dart headlong into mortal peril and needed encouragement to bolster their courage – so they did.

"Harry! Luna!" said Slughorn cheerily, Slytherin enough to have realized his initial mistake. "Come, come, I'd love to introduce you to Mister Worple, author of the stunning biography  _Blood Brothers: My Life Amongst the Vampires_  — and, of course, his friend Sanguini." Slughorn emphasized  _friend_  in such a way that gave Draco no doubt he meant something else entirely.

"Harry Potter, I am simply delighted!" said Worple, squinting up at Draco. "I was saying to Professor Slughorn only the other day, ' _Where is the biography of Harry Potter for which we have all been waiting?_ '"

"Were you," said Draco, deadpan. "You and the rest of Merlin's kingdom, I'm sure."

"Just so, my dear boy, just so!" Worple laughed heartily. "But seriously, I would be delighted to write it myself — people are craving to know more about you, dear boy! If you were prepared to grant me a few interviews, say in four- or five-hour sessions, why, we could have the book finished within months. And all with very little effort on your part, I assure you —"

"I think Harry has got quite enough gold," Luna said simply. "Excuse us," she added politely, and steered Draco away towards the mead. One of the fairies was still doing the backstroke there and making noises that held the rhythm of a drinking song, but Luna paid her no mind, scooping them both a cupful and handing one to Draco.

He downed it in one go.

"Merlin's sky and stars," he muttered.

"That's what you get for being Harry Potter," Luna opined.

" _Apparently_."

"There you are!" Hermione and Ron had found them, Blaise in tow. Ron was looking mutinous, and Draco swiftly saw why: Blaise had shown up in the most modern, fashionable Wizarding robes, and he and Hermione looked smashing together. Standing alongside them, Ron looked rather as though he'd wandered into the party by mistake; and he wasn't helping himself by hanging back wearing such a stepped-on expression, either.

Blaise laughed at the tiny fairy swimming in the punch bowl but called it  _unhygienic_ ; Ron defiantly scooped himself some and drank it in one go, just as Draco had.

 _Offer Hermione some, first, you fool_ , Draco thought, but it was too late; now Ron looked like he meant to insult both of them, somehow.

Blaise was doing his pureblooded best to push through the awkwardness. "So, Slughorn has collected himself some real luminaries this evening," he said lazily, pouring Hermione a cupful of mead and casting a purification spell before handing it off, and pouring himself some in turn. "A member of the Wizengamot, a Harpy Captain, a founder of a million-Sickle Potioneering company, and, drum roll, please… the Savior of the Wizarding World."

"Don't call me that," Draco snapped.

"He's had a very trying party so far," Luna explained, patting him on the arm.

Unaccountably, that set a bubble of hilarity in Draco's throat that exploded as a helpless laugh.

"Harry always has trouble with this sort of thing," Hermione observed absently, sipping on her mead, glancing around.

"Harry's standing right here and doesn't enjoy being spoken about as if he isn't," Draco grumbled, still seeing the humour.

"Who'd like it?" Ron added darkly. "All these famous, posh people who can't talk to one another like  _human_ beings… all polished up and nothing underneath…"

"I don't know," Luna mused. "It's true that they might be several House Elves in a trenchcoat underneath, I suppose… but _probably_ they're all just people." She sounded dubious.

"Fewer than 5% House Elves in a trenchcoat," said Draco.

She looked up into Draco's features curiously. "There are nearly fifty people in the room. That's  _at least_  two sets of House Elves in trenchcoats. Let's decide who!"

Her dreamy gaze and voice might've fooled someone else, but Draco thought he was beginning to get the feel for when Luna was poking fun.

"Mister Potter."

Draco turned in what felt like slow motion, because there was no mistaking that voice.

"Holy  _shit_ ," said Ron, but under his breath.

It was Narcissa Malfoy.

It was Narcissa Malfoy looking as though she'd dressed for one of her society parties, all jewel-bedecked and evening-gowned, and Narcissa at a Hogwarts party was so incongruous that Draco felt certain she was about to disappear in a puff of impossibility.

"Mrs. Malfoy," said Blaise, and made a proper pureblooded bow. He elbowed Ron and – lo and behold – Ron bowed, too, after a stubborn moment.

Draco bowed, trembling, and Luna curtseyed at his side.

"Mrs Malfoy," he said on rising. "I, er. Didn't expect to see you at a function like this."

"My book club is anticipating the release of  _Blood Brothers_  on tenterhooks," said his mother, dryly.

Could he still call her that? Even within the confines of his own head?

It felt unsafe.

"…had to speak to him in person," Narcissa was going on dispassionately, not even making the attempt to feign interest convincingly. "And, of course, I wanted to ask after you, Mister Potter. Be sure you were well."

Draco's gaze darted to his companions and back. They looked about as gobsmacked as he felt. "I'm… not sure why," he said slowly.

"There are those who say the fate of the Wizarding World rests squarely on your shoulders."

Draco swallowed. The loud music and raucous laughter around him seemed briefly surreal. "It's been said."

"They're young, narrow shoulders for a whole war to rest upon," she said sympathetically. "If there is anything you need to ensure your success, anything at all, I want you to feel free to call on me."

"What?" Ron squeaked.

"I know that the Weasleys have been looking after you in the Wizarding World up to now," Narcissa went on, pale blue eyes crinkling at the corners with sympathy. "But they have… a great many other children of their own, whereas we have only one –"

"Draco Malfoy," Ron supplied, with such loathing that Draco winced. So did Ron as Blaise elbowed him from one side and Hermione from the other.

_That sounded like it hurt._

" – and I have the…  _resources_ … to more easily aid you in your efforts," Narcissa went on, as though Ron hadn't spoken at all.

"Forgive me, Mrs Malfoy," said Hermione, and Narcissa turned to the girl with her nose curled as though Hermione smelled bad. "But are we really to believe that you're willing to help Harry when it was his efforts that led to Mr Malfoy in Azkaban?"

"Believe what you will," Narcissa said coolly to Draco, as though he were the one who'd posed the question. "I throw my wholehearted support behind you, Mister Potter, in part  _because_  of what has become of my dear husband. Do consider it," she added. "Mr Zabini, children," she added, and swept away.

Ron trembled in place. "I hate this times a million. Can we go back to Gryffindor, yet?"

"What's her game, I wonder?" Blaise said.

"Same as yours, I reckon!"

"Stop it," Hermione ordered. "Stop it, Ron. Blaise is just smart enough to see the winning side, and as much as it pains me to say so, maybe Mrs Malfoy is, too."

"Maybe Harry reminds her of her son," said Luna. "Maybe she is wondering how Draco would face a big responsibility like this. Maybe she wants to help."

Ron turned to Draco. "You've barely said a word. Tell me you're not considering going to  _her_  for anything."

"You don't know anything about her," Draco snapped. "We don't know what she's after, but let's not assume some nefarious plot. She's someone's mother," he added, wrapping his arms around himself.

Ron looked disgusted. "She's a Malfoy; what more do I have to know?"

"Ron, that's unkind," Luna said in her mildest voice.

"It's not  _unkind!_ " Ron snapped. He huffed out a breath. "I don't – I don't know how you all… it's like you've  _forgotten_  what the Slytherins are like, the way they manipulate and – it's the  _evil_  House, okay? You can't trust them!"

"Hey," said Blaise, faintly.

"You  _can't_ ," Ron emphasized, gaze darting between Blaise and Hermione, and stormed off.

Luna patted Draco on the arm again. "He doesn't mean it. He's just unhappy because he's not as clever as Hermione or as rich as Blaise or as famous as Harry, so he thinks one day you'll all realize you feel as he does about it, and then you won't care about him anymore."

Everyone stared, but Luna merely shrugged. Likely, she was used to everyone staring at her in some form of shock and awe.

"Okay," said Blaise, taking a deep breath. He stripped off his fancy dress robes and handed them to Hermione; underneath, he was wearing a grey shirt and dark trousers. "Okay. Wish me luck," he told them, and stomped off after Ron.

"What," said Draco, staring after him.

Hermione shrugged. "I don't think Blaise has some nefarious plan, no matter what Ron says. But so far as his non-nefarious plans go, I'm equally in the dark."

Just then, there was a commotion at the door. Fearing that Ron and Blaise had begun some kind of scuffle, Draco pushed through the crowd only to see…

"Speak of the Devil," said Hermione.

It was Draco Malfoy – or the pale imitation, anyway – being dragged away by Argus Filch, while Snape and Slughorn looked on, Snape in near-comical dismay, Slughorn with a look of faint fatherly disappointment painted across his flushed features.

"Caught him lurking, I did!" crowed Filch. "Claimed he was invited but lost his way."

Ah,  _Merlin's sky and stars_ , how  _embarrassing_.

Snape continued to look horror-struck, but Slughorn was softening. "Ah, Filch, it's Christmas. Just this once, let's let the boy stay on."

Malfoy himself looked disappointed – probably working on the Vanishing Cabinet, Draco thought sourly, and sorry he couldn't get back to it – but he still had some of Draco's panache, because he composed himself swiftly, changing tacks, thanking Slughorn for his generosity.

"It's nothing, nothing," said Slughorn. "I did know your grandfather, after all…"

"He always did speak very highly of you, sir," said Malfoy swiftly, and Draco snorted.

Abraxas had never so much as mentioned Slughorn without a sneer on his face.

"…and your mother might still be around here somewhere, come to think! Last-second invite, lots of favours called in, trying to help out old family friends… after all, it's not  _her_  fault that her husband… ahem," he muttered, "I think I see someone to whom I must speak. Have a good time, my boy, and forget some of those troubles, eh?" he said in a more paternal voice to Malfoy, clapping him on the shoulder before moving away.

"Mother?" said Malfoy faintly.

"You suppose he didn't know she was coming?" said Hermione. "How dreadful!"

"I am sure he did not," said Luna. "Maybe we can cheer him up?"

"Luna!" said Draco and Hermione simultaneously, but Luna proceeded determinedly forward, just missing Draco's clutching hands.

"Hullo, Malfoy," she said. "Hullo, Professor Snape!" she added more cheerily.

"Miss Lovegood," said Snape. "Perhaps this is not the best time…"

"I find people say so when they're putting something off that they very much don't wish to do," Luna observed. "Do you very much not wish to speak with me?"

Snape blinked. "Er."

Draco was simultaneously relieved that even someone of Snape's calibre could be put off by Luna Lovegood and pleased and proud of her for managing it.

"It is only that I wanted a word with Mister Malfoy. In private," said Snape.

Malfoy looked unhappy, but resigned. After eyeing him a moment as if to make sure he did not have any concrete protest, Luna nodded. "Carry on. And Malfoy," she added, and Draco saw his counterpart lift his head. "Do eat your greens. You're  _full_  of Wrackspurts."

When Snape led Malfoy away, Malfoy went, with a few baffled glances over his shoulder at Luna. "Come on!" Hermione said. "Or aren't you still interested in proving Malfoy's up to something?"

Draco's lips firmed. Yes, he was still interested in banishing his doppelganger – and Dumbledore had sworn if he had proof, Malfoy would be at the very least expelled. So Granger cast some clever concealment charms and they followed the pair down the hallway and eventually to an empty classroom at the end.

"What were you  _thinking_?" Professor Snape was hissing. Draco peered through the keyhole and could see Snape standing before Draco. "If you manage to be expelled – if you're  _caught_  –"

"Caught doing what?" Malfoy hissed. "Caught wandering the hallways at night? Potter hasn't been expelled for that yet, Professor."

"I hope you are telling the truth, because the attempt on Bell's life was both clumsy and foolish. Already you are suspected of having a hand in it."

"Who suspects me?" said Malfoy angrily. "Bell must've had an enemy no one knows about… don't look at me like that!" he said, jerking back and growling at Snape. "I know what you're doing, I'm not stupid, but it won't work – I can stop you!" A look of concentration overtook his features.

There was a pause and then Snape said quietly, "Ah . . . Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency, I see. What thoughts are you trying to conceal from your master, Draco?"

"I'm not trying to conceal anything from  _him._ Just from  _you_ ," Malfoy said coldly, folding his arms.

"So that is why you have been avoiding me this term? You have feared my interference? You realize that, had anybody else failed to come to my office when I had told them repeatedly to be there —"

Malfoy scoffed. "Do you think I care? I wouldn't show up to classes, either, except people would come looking. None of any of it  _means_  anything – you should know better than anybody –"

"Mister Malfoy," said Snape, slowly. He paused, and Draco swallowed. He could've sworn Snape's sorrow was genuine. "No matter what, you mean something... your  _fate_ means something... and there will be a life after the War."

Malfoy snorted aloud and shook his head. "Sure, that's what I meant. So give me another detention if you like," he said.

"Listen to me," said Snape, his voice so low now that Draco had to push his ear very hard against the keyhole to hear. "I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco —"

Malfoy erupted into bitter laughter. "And she didn't tell you, did she? That I no longer matter a whit to her? I suppose you mustn't, either. She's cast her lot with Potter – or didn't you hear?"

There was an ominous silence.

"See, you're not as in the loop as you like to think,  _Professor_. You've sworn an Unbreakable Vow to protect the life of Draco Malfoy, have you?" Malfoy huffed another laugh, this one shuddery and crackling with pain. " _And you don't even know who that is_."

"Draco," said Snape carefully, "is there anything you'd like to tell me? I could help you –"

"You won't take my glory from me,  _or_  my name," Malfoy spat. "It's my responsibility, I've got a plan and it's going to work, it's just taking a bit longer than I thought it would…"

"You needn't be alone, Draco," Snape said. "Why not confide in me, and I can  _help_  you…"

Snape, Draco thought, sounded much more concerned for Malfoy than worried about his plans, suddenly.

"I get it," Malfoy said coldly. "You  _are_  in on it, aren't you? Just trying to stop me. I'll prove it. I'll prove I'm my father's son."

Snape tried again – Draco had to admire his persistence. "I understand that your father's imprisonment has rattled you, but  _Draco_  –"

Draco only had a moment's warning before Malfoy rocketed out the door; he only just managed to yank Hermione and Luna back in time. Malfoy was so absorbed in dashing away he didn't even look back to see the three of them standing there in paralysed shock.

Draco, Hermione, and Luna headed back towards the party, only speaking when the sound was spilling out into the hallway to muffle their voices.

Hermione was pink-cheeked and bouncing with the thrill of a new mystery. "Harry, you were right! Malfoy  _is_  up to something!" she exclaimed.

Draco threw up his hands. " _You think?_ "

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last night I finished writing another fic:  _A Game of Chess_! It's a monster, for multiple reasons - I've been working on it since I finished writing  _Secret of Slytherin_ , which means I've been writing it off and on since 2006. For those of you playing at home, yes - that's over a decade. Secret of Slytherin was my first Harry Potter fic and everything I wrote still felt like it took place in that same universe back then. It always felt like I was telling the same story, and I was tearing out my hair.
> 
> To get out of this mindset, I chose a mixed bag of tropes that were often done poorly, and tropes I wasn't inclined to use at all. Since I had (deliberately!) made it difficult for myself, the ensuing narrative suffered from multiple stalls and me beating my head against that literary wall over a period of years. Each time I'd come to a dead end and give up; but then, something would blossom in my head and I'd jolt forward another 50 pages. Friends and family all know the "Ron-back-in-time story" as my great white whale. As torturous as it was to produce, I'm beyond pleased with the way it came together in the end - ten years is long enough to think of some truly labyrinthine plot twists.  _A Game of Chess_  is why the Ron you see in my writing is a well-rounded character; it's why the Ron/Draco friendship in  _Geas of Gryffindor_  exists and seems so well-established; and  _Being Harry Potter_ , too, owes a great deal of its dynamics and a few plot points to  _Chess_  - you'll see when you read them in tandem. It just goes to show that the stories mouldering on your computer might be worth re-examining, or at the very least might make a good stepping stone for other work.
> 
> Watch for it to be posted after this fic!
> 
> So, time to weigh in, you lurkers! What did you think?


	12. Chapter 12

When Draco returned to Gryffindor Tower, Ron was throwing things into a knapsack with rather more force than Christmas packing warranted.

"So, when are you leaving?" he tried, neutrally.

Ron looked up in surprise. "It's tomorrow morning - did you forget? You need to start packing, too."

Draco tried with all his might to prevent a shocked expression from overtaking his features. Given the way Ron was staring, he didn't feel he'd been entirely successful. "I, I did," he stammered. "That it was tomorrow."

Did Potter purchase Christmas gifts for all the Weasleys? Were there Weasley Christmas traditions that he should know about? Omissions that would look suspicious? Behaviours that Ron and Hermione had grown used to, but that Mr and Mrs Weasley might find unacceptably out of character?

Seamus and Dean were in one corner laughing quietly at a scrap of paper – probably one of Dean's sketches – and Neville was sitting on his bed rearranging his class notes. None of them had miraculously provided the answer to any of his questions. So.

"Hey, I'll be right back," he said, and descended into the still-bustling Common Room, where he found Hermione finishing up some schoolwork.

"Hermione, I'm doing some last-minute Christmas things. Can you help me remember what I got everyone last year? I don't want any repeats..."

Hermione looked up from the book in her lap slowly, then blinked as though re-orienting herself to the physical world. "What? Oh, yes. Well, why don't you get chocolates for everyone you're still missing? No one ever objects to chocolates."

"Just want to make sure I'm not leaving anybody out, though," Draco pressed.

Granger rattled off a bunch of names and Draco repeated them over and over again in his head as she rattled on awhile longer; it wasn't as though he could risk dashing to a paper and quill under her watchful eye.

"Anyway," she said, "my parents say it rots your teeth."

Some Muggle superstition, undoubtedly. The point was moot, anyway - there was no way Draco was getting Granger chocolates thereby implying Potter had forgotten to buy Christmas presents for one of his best friends.

 

* * *

 

The Weasleys had arranged to fetch Ron, Harry, and Ginny from the platform at King's Cross for their Christmas visit. Draco was twisting around, peering this way and that, stomach in knots, when Gin suddenly waved wildly on tip-toe, and then he was face-to-face with Mr and Mrs Weasley.

Mrs Weasley was wearing faded red Christmas robes, dotted here and there with flour; she must've been baking before coming to fetch them. She immediately began fussing:

"Ron! Ginevra! Oh, Harry!" she said, as though it buoyed her with delight to clap eyes on them, and she wrapped them all together in one warm, cinnamon-and-orange-scented embrace. She drew back to examine them more closely. "Ginevra, I do believe you're even more muscular than before – have you been working her hard at practice, Harry?"

"Muuum!" Ginny whinged. "I  _like_  my muscles!"

"So do I, dear, I wasn't saying they aren't, er,  _fetching_. And Harry, dear, it looks like you've finally put on some weight! Ron, you've been taking good care of him!"

"I  _always do_ ," Ron muttered.

"Easy, Mollywobbles," Mr Weasley murmured, a look of wry and tolerant amusement on his face that reminded Draco sharply of Ron, "let the kids breathe."

"They can breathe! You can  _breathe_ ," she reassured them. "Well, come on, come along, then," she added, chivvying them forward. "Let's get home. Bill and Charlie are already there, and if Fred and George taunt them any more without adult supervision there'll be bloodshed before dinner."

Draco, who'd had more than one run-in with the twins, wasn't entirely sure she was speaking figuratively.

"Perce?" said Ginny, sharply.

"No, dear, he let us know he'd be busy this year."

Ron turned bright red. "Busy. On Christmas?"

"Hush," Ginny said, and elbowed him.

Draco, catching Ginny's sudden somberness and Ron's thundercloud of a face, deemed discretion the better part of valour.

They piled into an entirely non-enchanted vehicle to ride back to the Burrow.

Draco was fascinated. He'd heard of the things before, of course, and understood that they ran without magic; but he couldn't figure out at all how it moved. Well, he thought, peering out the window, the wheels spun just like a carriage… and there must be something that spun  _them_ … and they, in turn, must be attached to the central wheel… or turning the wheel oughtn't turn the car… he began asking Mr Weasley questions about the way it all worked, and that took them most of the way to the Burrow. Draco turned to see that Ginny had fallen asleep slumped against the car window, a line of drool snaking down her chin, and had to be roused by her brother.

She swiped absently at her face and smacked her lips a few times before tumbling outside. Mrs Weasley wrapped an arm about her shoulders and hustled her down the path to the Burrow, the two of them shivering. When Draco turned to the car door, finding the handle and wriggling it experimentally, Ron grabbed his arm.

"Hey, thanks," Ron said.

Draco looked up in confusion.

"About Dad. He isn't taking the Percy stuff well. And asking about the car – I think you made his Christmas."

Draco grinned. "Well, if that's all it takes."

Ron made a bit of a face, then turned.

"Wait," said Draco, suddenly self-conscious. "What is it?"

"Just," said Ron. "The twins, that's all," darkly.

"Two against two," said Draco.

Ron slid him a sideways grin. "Wicked."

The Burrow was everything he'd been subconsciously expecting: rambling, and messy-looking, and ancient without any dignity or class. They kept  _chickens_  for Merlin's sake.

Chickens that clucked nosily at them, approaching Molly and Ginny as they made their way to the door, following in their wake with peaceable  _cluck-cluck_  noises in the backs of their throats. They were small and white and plump, and they skittered comically. There was a cauldron sitting in the  _front lawn_ , and it had remnants of old potions on it and childish scrawlings all over it. The house itself slumped and lurched, looking like rooms had fallen from the sky and left to sit wheresoever they would: branching more like a tree than a domicile. A good half-dozen snowboots sat by the front door, all colours and sizes.

The Potter palimpsest adored every inch of it.

"Home," said Ron in satisfaction, and Ginny darted the rest of the way to the door to arrive ahead of the chickens, pecking now at the snow, and Draco thought  _oh, of course. This is where you come from._

 

* * *

 

Mrs Weasley put them to work prepping Brussels sprouts straightaway, the moment they'd set their things in a corner. Then she bustled away to tend to other Christmastime-related chores.

Draco felt strangely at ease, rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands. He'd never done this before, but it was similar enough to Potions to feel familiar, especially with Ron at his side. The kitchen was bright and overwarm, with clear, new-minted light shining fiercely through the windows and the glass door that led out into the back garden. And now Draco finally had the time alone with Ron to explain, and so he began to tell him of what he, Hermione and Luna had observed the evening before.

"Blimey," muttered Ron. "So Snape was trying to get Malfoy to explain what he's doing, but Malfoy refused? I always thought Malfoy was in Snape's pocket."

"Apparently not," Draco replied. It didn't feel as though Ron were talking about him at all; it was hard to conjure anger at Weasley insulting the… Malfoy palimpsest. "And I know what he's trying to do: he wants to get the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. I've just got to  _prove_  it. Dumbledore won't expel him without  _proof._ "

Ron stared, jaw dropped, and Draco realized he'd never given up that little detail before. He flushed, ready to come up with some story, but then the twins were rounding the corner.

"Ah, George, look at this!" said… the-one-who-was-not-George, clutching one hand dramatically to his heart. "They're using knives and everything. Bless!"

"I'll be seventeen in two and bit months' time," said Ron, "and then I'll be able to do it by magic!" – Ron, always trying to prove himself worthy, Draco thought with a little twinge.

"But meanwhile," said George, flopping down at the kitchen table and propping his feet up on it –  _ewww_ , thought Draco – "we can enjoy watching you demonstrate the correct use of a – "

Draco saw Fred was holding his wand and swiftly drew his own.

Fred put his hands up in the air dramatically.

Draco was beginning to wonder if the twins did  _everything_ dramatically.

"Just a little joke," said Fred idly, pocketing his wand as if he hadn't been about to make his brother's hand slip. "Anyhow, Ronniekins – I'm sure that once you  _can_  do magic at home, you'll dazzle us with hitherto unknown gastronomic skill."

"And speaking of hitherto unknown skills," said George, slyly, swinging his feet over to plant them flat, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees and rest his chin on his fists. "What's this I hear about Hermione and – unless our information is faulty – Blaise Zabini?"

Ron turned tomato-red. "That's none of your business," said Ron calmly, though Draco noted his chopping hands were a little shaky.

The twins gawped, then hooted as one. "Then it's true!" Fred cried. "A Slytherin has got a crush on Hermione!"

"It isn't a  _crush_ ," Ron protested, attacking the sprouts with unwonted ferocity. "It's a Slytherin  _plot_ , or something."

If anything, the twins' laughter only increased in volume.

"Oh,  _Ronniekins_ ," said George earnestly. "That's the thinnest falsehood I ever heard."

"It's not a lie!" said Ron, voice still even, although his chopping motions grew more and more erratic. "Unless I were fooling someone,  _I_ wouldn't go around acting like I was mad for someone I'd barely known more than a few months.  _I_ wouldn't try and become chummy with her friends – I wouldn't pretend to get on with someone when I don't. And  _I_ wouldn't try to get close to someone just because his best mate is the Boy Who Lived –"

Draco reached out swiftly enough to cover Ron's hands. "It's – it's dead, now, Ron, you've killed it."

Ron peered down at the mutilated pile of sprouts and set the knife down with exaggerated care. "You should mind your own business," Ron muttered.

"Beautiful comeback. Inspired," said Fred. "Someday I may admit we're related."

"Yeah," mused George. "Probably a plot, though, like Ron says. Get in with you and Hermione, get in with Harry."

"That's what I'm saying," said Ron, but his voice wavered.

"That," said Fred slowly, relishing the words, "or Ronniekins… he's actually  _in love_. And what then?"

"Love?" said Mrs Weasley, re-entering the kitchen. "Who's in love? Ron, are we talking about Hermione?"

"Oh!" sighed George. " _Hermione_ …"

Ron pointed the knife Georgewards. "Don't you talk about Hermione in  _that tone_."

"We don't point knives at people, Ronald," Mrs Weasley said mildly. "Even," she added, shooting a sharp glare the boys' way, "when they richly deserve it."

Fred and George shrank back a little while trying to look as though they were doing no such thing.

"Fred, George, you'll be rooming with Bill and I'll hear no whinging about it," she went on. "Fleur will share with Ginny, and that leaves Harry and Ron the attic." She paused again, and Draco could almost  _see_  her deciding to add, "honestly, Fred, George. Sometimes I worry you don't know what  _too far_  means."

"Sorry, mum," said George, and "sorry, mum," said Fred.

"But c'mon, Ronnie," George said, still half-apologetic. "It is a situation  _rife_  with hilarity: our Hermione in the throes of a tormented, forbidden romance..."

"Hermione isn't in the  _throes_  of anything," said Ron, but Mrs Weasley was already chivvying the twins upstairs.

That evening, Draco penned a letter to Blaise Zabini, features squinching as he tried to find the right words.

 

_Blaise_ , he wrote:

_I don't know how you got your owls lost at Slughorn's Christmas party, but Ron is a Gryffindor who needs you to explain using words in place of the arch of your eyebrow, and linear logic in place of insinuation._

_Harry_

 

On Christmas Eve, he saw a Greater Sooty Owl he recognized as Blaise's come winging down to the Burrow. Ron must've recognized it, too, because he went rather pale; but the owl stuck its foot out to Draco, who unfurled a very short curl of parchment from around the bird's leg:

 

_Harry,_

_Ron's only source of confusion is my House._

_Blaise_

Draco threw the missive into the fireplace.

"What was it?" said Ron. "What did it say?"

"Nothing of substance.  _Slytherin_ ," Draco hissed. But he was angrier at himself for forgetting the ways of his own House. Of course Blaise wouldn't admit to his motivations, much less on a piece of parchment anyone could see. He was beginning to think like a Gryffindor, and it pained him.

He pulled out a second piece of parchment while Ginny fed Blaise's owl from the jar of owl treats in the kitchen.

 

**Blaise** , he wrote, nearly scoring the parchment with his quill,

_Ron is –_

Draco paused a moment, tongue sticking out from between his teeth. Ron was – what? A precious little woodland creature who couldn't fend for himself? No. Ron was stubborn and loyal and  _good_  and underneath all his bluster and his suspicions of everything Slytherin, he liked to trust people. If Blaise wormed his way into that trust and then destroyed it – Draco thought he might hex Blaise into the Hospital Wing. He crossed out his previous sentence hurriedly.

 

_~~Ron is~~ Hurt him and I'll obliterate you and make it look like an accident._

Draco cast a complicated spell his father had taught him, ensuring the missive would burst into flames after Blaise had finished reading it.

"And what did  _that_ say?" Ron growled.

"Nothing," said Draco. "Nothing of substance."

Ginny stared. "You're scaring me there a little." She leaned abruptly forward and whispered, "I'm glad you're Ron's friend," confidentially.

"Honestly," said Ron, following the pair of them into the living room. "If it was about me, I think I've got the right to know."

"That's cute," said Draco, darkly. "No."

Ginny plunked down to the living room floor, where she was stringing together pieces of looped paper to create festive Christmas garlands. She patted the floor beside her and Draco watched for a moment before taking up some strips of paper, himself. Like preparing food, it felt both new and second-nature.

Could that be the Potter palimpsest? Or just muscle memory, from Potter's brain directing and hands doing this dozens of times before?

"No one likes being talked about behind their back," said Ron.

Draco looked up from where he was making paper chains with Ginny, hands continuing to move without conscious thought. "I reminded him I was your very good friend who'd look askance if you were made to feel stepped on in any way," he said mildly.

"Oh  _Merlin_ ," Ron said, the words escaping him in a huff of breath. "You gave him the  _best friend talk_?! Harry! Now he's going to get entirely the wrong idea…" He stomped off to the little writing desk in the living room and pulled out a sheet of old parchment and scribbled furiously. "Pig!" Ron shouted, and a tiny, excitable owl flew ( _almost!_ ) through the window, clipping the side of his wing and rolling to a stop in the middle of the Weasleys' woven living room rug.

Ginny laughed and righted him. "Poor Pig," she said, patting him twice on the head.

Pig – and  _who named their owl 'Pig'?_  – Ron Weasley, that was who, Draco supposed, snorting – flew in two or three lurched pumps of his tiny wings to land on Ron's desk. "Blaise Zabini," Ron told the little owl firmly, and it zoomed back out the open window.

"Mrs Zabini is going to wonder," Draco began, but Ginny shot him a warning look and exaggeratedly took up her next strip of paper, raising her eyebrows significantly.

Draco sighed and plucked another strip of paper from the floor.

By the time they were stringing a garland over the fireplace, Ron had his reply, Pigwidgeon zooming so close to the fire that Ginny had to scoop him up in her hands before he became a ball of soot.

Ron hadn't helped, instead spending most of his time pacing back and forth through the living room. Now he dropped to his knee in front of the tiny owl, who hooted disconsolately.

"You shouldn't have thrown Pigwidgeon out in this cold," his sister chided.

"Sorry, Pig," said Ron. "Fair's fair: owl treat, first."

Draco tried in vain to imagine a Malfoy saying  _fair's fair_  to anything they fed or clothed or housed. Including himself.

Once the tiny owl was happily munching on a treat and fluffing its feathers to dry out from the snow and ice, Ron unfurled Blaise's reply. Ron's features looked different when he'd finished reading:  _worried_ , Draco realized, with that strange squeeze in his chest; it was a familiar expression, that sombre concern, from his first month as Harry Potter.

After another minute of staring, Ron dropped the letter in the trash and, moments later, they heard the thump of Ron's retreating feet at the stairwell.

The moment the sounds faded, Ginny scrambled forward to retrieve the letter from the bin. It read:

 

_Ron,_

_I should hope that we_ _are_ _friends. I'm certain it hasn't escaped you that a number of the Slytherins are trying to cosy up to Potter – Mrs Malfoy! – but most of us are savvy enough to know you won't be fooled by anything less than true devotion. So we are trying, genuinely trying, to understand and support you ~~, and –~~._

_You're right, I am fond of Hermione. She's a treasure and, if she sees fit, I intend to treat her as such. And if she does not see fit, it is my best and sincerest hope that you will look after one another well. I should trust no one else to see to her happiness._

_I'm sorry that I've caused you any distress. It wasn't my intention._

_Do you despise me, now?_

_Blaise_

 

"Blaise Zabini needs his head examined," said Ginny, once she'd gotten through reading it.

To Draco, it sounded like someone who knew they'd screwed up and feverishly composed a letter that suited every eventuality. But whether Blaise thought of cosying up to Ron as an expression of genuine affection, a strange side-stepping bid for Hermione's heart, or a misguided calculation to sidle more permanently into the friend-circle of the Boy Who Lived was impossible to say.

Did Blaise himself even know which it was?

Draco folded the parchment back into tiny squares and pocketed it for safekeeping.

 

* * *

 

"What,  _what_ ," Draco grumbled as Ron shook his shoulder.

" _Christmas_ ," said Ron, and Draco was instantly awake.

The day had dawned bright and clear and cold, sun shining merrily off a light snow that had fallen the evening before after they'd slept. The outdoors sparkled with white light when Ron and Draco descended the stair into the kitchen, which already – or else, perpetually – smelled of cinnamon and hot tea.

"Coffee?" Draco muttered, dragging his hands down his face. Mrs Weasley pressed a cup into his hand and the scent wafted up, making him blink in surprise.

"I told mum you'd taken a liking to it," said Ron, and Draco took a sip to hide his face.

This was something they'd learned about  _him_ , Draco, not Harry-Potter-as-he-was, and it was surprisingly off-putting. The squeeze at his chest was back; he pressed the warm cup to it and winced.

"Careful, that's the one with the chip… remember?" Ron queried idly, moving into the living room, and the façade was shattered.

Of course he didn't remember. He was still an outsider, here, a… changeling, of sorts.

Mrs Weasley wrapped a casual arm around his shoulder and herded him forward as though sensing his distress. "Come along, boys, everyone else is already gathered around the tree – surprised you slept in so long as you did…"

The living room was even more festive than it had been when Draco left Ginny and went to bed: the little loops were festooned everywhere, Spellotaped to the corners of the ceiling, draped 'round the mantle, and even around the backs of some of the chairs. The Weasleys were one of the families who decorated the tree that morning, and for whom the presents appeared from Christmas Eve to Christmas day; the tree loomed bushy and huge, dominating the room and dwarfing the small pile of messily-wrapped gifts. The warm scent of cider hung in the air, and several of the boys held steaming cups. Mr Weasley was laughing riotously at some story of one of the older boys – Charlie, maybe, Draco thought – the twins were elbowing each other and whispering, clearly at some plot; Ginny was eyeing Fleur Delacour with evident dislike, and Percy was – of course – nowhere to be found. Draco was surprised to see his old Defense professor, Professor Lupin, ensconced in a blanket, set in a stuffed chair by the fire.

"You're finally awake!" Ginny enthused, grabbing each of them by one arm and pulling them forward. "Mum wouldn't let us drag you out; I was about to, though, and a Bat Bogey to anyone who tried to stop me!"

She only released them once they were well into the room, and Draco realized they were meant to sit on the floor, like dogs; but right by the fireplace with Ron at his side made it not seem so bad. He'd cooled uncomfortably as he slept, and the warm mug in his hand and the fire at his back felt glorious.

"Here we are," said Ginny, and she began to hand out gifts and everyone opened theirs simultaneously, rather than in the ordered way Draco recalled from home. The pattern only ceased when Mr Weasley brought something out for Mrs Weasley, and Ginny bounced excitedly in place. Mrs Weasley pulled open a tiny, shimmering necklace dotted here and there with little gold butterflies, charmed to flap in place. It would have been deemed a trinket at Malfoy Manor, but when the Weasleys passed it around and made much over it, Draco took his turn, remarking on the craftsmanship and the durability of the Charm.

"You really shouldn't have, Arthur," she said. "This must've cost a month's salary, you foolish man."

"Well, no," Arthur said, rubbing the back of his neck. "And don't be cross, now. It won't set us too far back, and it reminded me of you."

She flushed like a schoolgirl.

"Okay, okay, enough mushy stuff," Fred declared. "Gin, you're falling down on the job."

Ginny sighed and resumed handing out gifts, but the whole spectacle ground to a halt a second time when she handed Draco a large, rectangular package.

"It's from Ron," she said.

"Really," said Ron. "Well. I don't want to give anything away. Just open it, and then... then we'll talk about it a little more…"

Wary, Draco tore the packaging away, heart thumping. What if it was something Potter had always wanted? What if he didn't react properly?

He tore the packaging away and opened the box to reveal…

…the forest green leather jacket.

The one he'd tried on in Gladrags that made him look so much like  _himself_ , and like Potter at the same time, that he had forgotten for a second that they weren't one and the same.

Ginny clapped, delighted, at what had to be a look of absolute shock on Draco's face.

"But," he said. "You. How did you…?"

Ron was trying hard not to grin. "Here, now I can say it: it's from the whole D.A.," Ron announced.

"A gift because you've kept on teaching us all, and we've never done anything in return," said Ginny. "Consider it a year's payment."

"Well?" Ron demanded, when Draco only stared at the leather coat as though he'd been beamed across the back of the head. "Say something, already!"

Draco didn't, but he did wrap his arms around Ron and squeeze, and did the same to Ginny a moment later.

Ginny Weasley fit more snugly in his arms than he'd expected, but he reminded himself that she was dating Dean, and let go with a flush.

Ron's face split wide with an overjoyed grin, and a spontaneous round of applause broke out around the room, a few of the Weasleys laughing. Even cool Fleur was smiling benignly at him, and Draco felt his cheeks heat.

"Thank you," he said, and he threw the jacket around his pyjama top immediately.

"You look quite a bit more like James, suddenly," Lupin remarked with a chuckle.

"Who?" said Draco.

A queer silence fell. Ron elbowed him. "Your  _father_ , James."

"Oh," said Draco, distantly, ears ringing. "Do I?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "We get it, you've only heard it a million times."

"All right, enough's enough, Ginevra," scolded George, and Ginny, rolling her eyes, continued to hand out the rest of the gifts. Draco's enormous basket of Belgian chocolates, with its matte, silver-and-walnut-colored ribbon looked dreadfully out of place, he thought. But when Mrs Weasley passed the basket around the little group, Ron rolling his eyes in exaggerated approbation of his chocolate's flavor and Ginny opening and closing her fingers in mute appeal for more, well. He supposed it could've gone worse.

At about halfway through, they took a break, and Draco went to see if there was any more coffee, grabbing a few biscuits, too, and putting them on a plate.

"Harry," said Mr Weasley, and Draco looked up. "I wanted to talk to you about what we discussed before you climbed the train for school."

"Oh?" said Draco. Merlin's sky and stars, this was turning out to be difficult. Fooling Ron and Hermione, even his professors, was one thing; fooling an entire roomful of people who hadn't seen Harry's "gradual change" was proving a good deal more difficult.

"There was nothing at the Malfoys', broken or whole, that shouldn't have been there."

Draco  _felt_ himself blanch. Potter had merely  _suggested_  the Malfoys might be up to something, and Mr Weasley had jumped! No – the  _Ministry_  had jumped.

His parents' decision was looking wiser and wiser.

"I expect he has it on him," Draco heard himself say.

"Expect," said Mr Weasley consideringly. "Does that mean you guess, or you know?"

Draco weighed his options silently. It was true that his counterpart had nearly gotten Katie killed; it was true that, given the opportunity, the other boy might well do worse. The Vanishing Cabinet and his terrible task had so consumed him that it seemed he could think of little else; it was as though all the worst bits of Draco had been distilled, or – perhaps it was more like Malfoy was the ghost of someone who'd died trying to accomplish something important: compelled to continue until his unfinished business was resolved.

With reservation, he told Mr Weasley about what he'd overheard Snape say to Malfoy.

"Did it occur to you, Harry, that Snape is simply pretending to wish to help Draco?"

"I think he was pretending some of it," said Draco, "but Hermione wasn't so sure. It's true he'd say the same thing either way, certainly; but I saw his face. He genuinely wants to protect Malfoy, and I think he'd," said Draco, stumbling, caught unawares by the sudden lump rising in his throat. "I think he'd go pretty far to ensure Malfoy didn't come to harm."

Mr Weasley was eyeing him with Ron's patented concern-face, gazing at him with such intensity that Lupin's voice made them both startle.

"It's Dumbledore's business," Lupin said diffidently, "whether or not to trust Snape. Dumbledore trusts Snape, and I trust Dumbledore. As should you, Harry," he said, ducking his chin and raising his brows forebodingly.

"That's a neat bit of circular logic,  _sir_ ," said Draco. "But I'm not saying I distrust Dumbledore. I'm saying that Draco Malfoy is in over his head, but he won't trust Snape to help, no matter what Snape tries. I saw Malfoy looking at the Cursed Necklace that nearly killed Bell; I am sure he bought the Vanishing Cabinet, too. Think about what he could do with that…"

Lupin interjected again. "But Dumbledore hasn't expelled him, or even taken him to task."

Draco drew himself up. "No."

"Then we're back to trusting the Headmaster's judgement, aren't we?"

"But he trusts  _everybody_ ," Draco growled. "He trusted –"

"Me?" said Lupin, quietly.

" _Tom Riddle_ ," Draco hissed.

A quiet fell in the kitchen.

"Do you mean to say that a schoolyard bully like Draco Malfoy is cut from the same cloth as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" said Lupin, gently.

"That's not a name to be spoken so lightly," said Mr Weasley, almost at the same time.

Draco deflated. "No. I guess… I just don't understand why it seems like everyone – from Dumbledore to Snape to Hermione to the two of you seems intent on protecting Draco Malfoy."

"We aren't, exactly," Lupin said, still in that even, firm voice. "But." He took a breath. "Harry. You have a great deal of influence at school. I know you don't like to hear it, but even at the Ministry. On the street. People will take your word over nearly anyone else's."

"So I'm beginning to realize," said Draco dryly.

"So can you also understand that if the Headmaster starts expelling other students – other  _Slytherin_  students – on your word alone that they are dangerous…?"

_Oh._

"Harry," said Mr Weasley. "Note it's your friends and allies who are so fiercely protecting the boy. Whom do you think they're really protecting?"

"Me?" said Draco, and winced at the double-answer.

"Clever boy," said Mr Weasley. "Don't let hatred blind you."

"I don't  _hate_  Malfoy. I don't think he can help what he's doing. I know, whatever it was, he was threatened. It can't be easy, having him in your home."

He only realized his mistake when Mr Weasley and Lupin exchanged a horror-struck glance. "Mr Potter?" said Lupin, reverting to teacherly tones. "How did you know that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at Malfoy Manor?"

Draco froze.

"Did you dream it?"

"Yes," Draco said, swiftly, eager to have such a ready-made explanation emerge.

"One thing I  _could_  curse Severus for," Lupin sighed. "Refusing to teach you Occlumency."

Draco knew Occlumency very well. Now didn't seem the time to mention that.

"Did you learn anything else, Harry?" said Lupin, keenly. " _See_  anyone else – at the Manor?"

Draco raised his eyebrows. "Ought I to have?"

Lupin sighed, looking relieved. "No; it's only that Greyback is brutal, a madman. I wouldn't have wanted you to have to see anything he…" Lupin shrugged, a sporadical, twitching motion.

Draco frowned. "I thought He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was all about blood purity. Why should he be courting the werewolves?"

When Lupin paused, Mr Weasley interjected. "Werewolves are treated rather shoddily," he said. "Even outside of the full moon, there are restrictions on where they can work, and how, and with whom; and they're often arrested on the thinnest of charges. Someone promising to overturn the current order could find favour with them, and sow discord within the Light's ranks by pitting Muggleborns and werewolves against one another."

Lupin nodded. "They're terrified of Greyback, most of them. You listen to him and it's about turning everyone into 'wolves; I suspect Voldemort will take him down at a critical juncture, and Greyback and his people may even know it. But things are so bad for us, now, you see, that they'll take any hand offered." He paused, looking troubled.

The concept of unfairness was one that Slytherin found laughable: Lupin was a werewolf and werewolves were dangerous and that was that. It was regrettable that Lupin and others like him couldn't find work, but that was hardly Draco's problem.

But it would be his problem if the werewolves felt so miserable, marginalized, and desperate that they were willing to follow a madman who wished to overturn the current order. They'd be on the other side of the War simply because wizards like the Malfoys believed their problems weren't worth getting fussed over. What good was being superior if your throat were ripped out? What good was 'proper wizarding feeling' when it turned to - quite literally - bite you in the end?

"Couldn't the Ministry push something through?" Draco inquired. "It doesn't have to pass – just show werewolves that there are people in the Ministry who care about their wellbeing."

Mr Weasley nodded. "Very clever, Harry; that's good thinking." He eyed Lupin.

"Am I drafting legislation, now?" Lupin sighed. "Here I thought I was a spy."

"We all must wear different hats, my friend," said Mr Weasley; on hearing Mrs Weasley call his name, he waved and returned to the living room.

Draco turned to go when Lupin cleared his throat.

"Thank you, Harry. That was an insightful idea."

"If the problem is that they don't feel heard," Draco said, "then this could really help?"

"We're also fighting indoctrination," Lupin replied, and Draco listened closely, taken aback at how much people were inclined to share with Harry Potter. "Bite them young – that's what Greyback says – and steal them away from their parents, who are often more grateful at the loss than not. Raise them to hate… So even if we do craft some pro-werewolf legislation, there's a chance that those in Greyback's pack may never hear word of it. He'd wish to keep it from young ears. We would need it to make a real splash, to be impossible to avoid knowing about, if we really want it to make a dent."

Draco had never envisioned werewolves as children, always as full-grown men, wild and mad-eyed even in their human form. "When were you…?" He ducked his head. "Sorry, that's an impertinent question."

"It's prescient, rather," said Lupin, "since Greyback was the one who bit me."

The Potter palimpsest went  _wild_  in Draco's chest, but it was his own, Slytherin-minded self who'd made the connection that had so infuriated him.

Lupin had been sent to spy on his… abuser? Mutilator? Rapist?

There was no word for the kind of brutalization Greyback had inflicted.

And Lupin had gone. He was clearly miserable, even at Christmas, even surrounded by friends. He looked shabbier than ever and his shoulders hunched in; but he had soft words and praise for Draco, who was standing at quite a remove and offering suggestions like he had the right.

"Good work not murdering him in his sleep, I suppose," said Draco. "Well done, you."

Lupin snorted. "He sleeps in a pile, with his most trusted lieutenants at the centre, or I'd give it the old Hogwarts try."

"Gross," Draco opined.

Lupin laughed and squeezed his shoulder; Draco stood statue-still, willing himself to overcome years of horror stories and revulsion and bear with it. He managed, and Lupin moved away.

"Merlin's sky and stars," he muttered, raking his fingers through his hair. Luckily, no one was around to note his relief.

"Harry, stop eating all the pastries and open your gift from Hermione!" Ron shouted, to general laughter.

Draco squared his shoulders, and went.

 

* * *

 

It was at Christmas lunch that Percy finally showed his face – standing next to Scrimgeour, the new Minister for Magic.

While Mrs Weasley made much over Percy's return, Ron and Draco eyed one another over the festive table decorations.

"Oh, Minister, do sit down!" Mrs Weasley exclaimed, but Scrimgeour demurred.

"Nonsense, my dear Molly," he crooned. "I wouldn't have intruded at all on this most special of days if Percy hadn't insisted. Why, it appears as though this young man is done with his meal," he said, nodding towards Draco. "Perhaps he can show me your lovely garden…"

Ron clutched at his sleeve. Nobody seemed to find Scrimgeour's pretence that he did not know Harry Potter's name convincing, or find it natural that he should be chosen to accompany the Minister around the garden when Ginny, Fleur, and George also had clean plates.

This was it, Draco thought dizzily. This was the start of everything he was here to do, everything his parents wanted. He stood.

" _Mate_ ," said Ron.

"It's all right," Draco said, prying his sleeve from Ron's grip. "It's fine," he added, when both Lupin and Mr Weasley looked as though they might like to accompany him. He turned to Scrimgeour. "Let me get my hat and gloves, and we'll go, Minister."

"Excellent! Marvellous," said Scrimgeour. "We'll just take a turn about the garden, shall we? And then Percy and I shall be off."

Draco gathered up his things and donned them, careful not to appear too hasty; he knew from the churning in his gut that Potter himself would not like this exchange very much, no matter how eager Draco Malfoy was.

"Charming," said Scrimgeour, as they stomped through the fresh layer of snow to gaze at the indeterminate and indistinguishable lumps of dead flowers and shrouded shrubbery in the garden, or perhaps he was taken with the sprawling chaos of the Burrow itself. "Charming." He turned. "Harry, did you know? I've been wishing to speak with you for a long time."

"I'll bet," said Draco, then bit his tongue, hard. He was meant to be  _flattering_  the Minister, not sassing him, but the Potter palimpsest was bristling.

"Oh yes, for a long time. But Dumbledore has been very protective of you," said Scrimgeour. "Natural, of course, after what you've been through… especially what happened at the Ministry…"

"Which is why you've chosen to visit me on Christmas. At my best mate's," said Draco, flatly.

Scrimgeour laughed, tossing his head back. "Ah, my boy!" he exclaimed, with every evidence of delight. "They told me you were sharp! Won't take any guff, will you? Good, good," he said, stroking his beard.

If anything, the Potter palimpsest's hackles rose higher.

"The rumours that have flown around!" said Scrimgeour. "Well, of course, we both know how these stories get distorted: all these whispers of a prophecy… of you being 'the Chosen One'…"

"Rumors?" Draco echoed. "Are they?"

"Sure of yourself, aren't you?" said Scrimgeour, almost to himself, now.

"Strangely," said Draco, "very."

And he was.

As Harry Potter, he had no doubt that the boy was destined for greatness. Draco had a front-row seat to the Potter palimpsest's inclinations: his warmth, his humour; the pain at his breast for the love of his friends, the  _nudge_  that insisted he be brave. The natural magic that flowed down his arm to his wand. The way everyone already turned to him for direction, up to and including his best mate's father and his old Defense professor.

It was the Potter palimpsest that bolstered him now, as though Potter were standing just behind him, tilting up his chin, tossing back his shoulders, raising one eyebrow…

…no; that part was all Draco Malfoy.

"Well, not that it matters, really, if you are this Chosen One or not," Scrimgeour mused.

"Oh?"

"Well, of course, to you it will matter enormously," said Scrimgeour with another laugh. "But to the Wizarding community at large… it's all perception, isn't it? It's what people believe that's important."

"Yes," said Draco, "it  _is_ important what people believe. And what do you suppose that is, Minister?"

"They think you quite the hero," Scrimgeour said agreeably. "A symbol of hope. The idea that there is somebody out there who might be able, who might even be destined, to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named – well, naturally, it gives people a lift. And I can't help but feel that, once you realize this, you might consider it almost a duty, to stand alongside the Ministry, and give everyone a boost."

"Give everyone a boost," said Draco, slowly. He had a sudden, vivid mental image of standing at some kind of wall as an endless parade of Ministry flunkies scrambled over top of it, Draco pushing on their bums from behind, Scrimgeour nodding smugly at his side.

He decided to blame Potter's rot for humour.

"The Ministry wouldn't ask anything onerous, I assure you," said Scrimgeour. "If you were to be seen popping in and out of the Ministry from time to time, for instance, that would give the right impression. And of course, while you were there, you would have ample opportunity to speak to Gawain Robards, my successor as Head of the Auror office. Dolores Umbridge has told me that you cherish an ambition to become an Auror. Well, that could be arranged very easily…"

Draco nodded. This was what his parents had been staking their lives on. All the same… "Intriguing, Minister," said Draco, clasping his hands behind the small of his back – open, open,  _feel free to try, sir._  "What interesting conversations you and good old  _Professor_ Umbridge must have had."

"Well, now," said Scrimgeour, rocking back a bit on his heels. "I'm not too fond of the old toad, myself, but I did have to figure out what you wanted before I offered it to you, didn't I?"

Draco smiled in spite of himself.

"There we are!" Scrimgeour murmured approvingly. "First sign I've seen we might get along."

Draco thought – briefly – of sharing his ambitions to become Minister himself, given time. It could open up all kinds of opportunities, were he to announce his goals.

But he pegged Scrimgeour as a lifer who'd fight tooth and nail to keep Harry out of office. Surely if Draco let on he was to be anything other than Head Auror at Scrimgeour's right hand, the canny man would do all he could to oppose him. Better to play Harry Potter, suspicious of power, than Draco Malfoy, grasping after it with both hands.

"I don't like being used," he announced plainly after a moment.

Scrimgeour stroked his short whiskers. "No, my boy. Who does, who does? But it's for the best, and where's the harm so long as you get something out of it as well? I use you; you use me. It's the way of the world."

Once, those words wouldn't have even sounded strange. Now, Draco heard a sudden outpouring of laughter from inside the Burrow, and turned towards it as a flower bends to the sun. For a moment, he forgot why he was out in the cold speaking to this cold man and not inside, where it was warm.

"Well," said Scrimgeour, with a low chuckle. "Not the way of every world, shall we say, but it is the way of politics." He paused. "Do you really think old Percy wanted to come here?"

Draco looked up, sharply. "No, sir."

"No is right," said Scrimgeour. "I had to insist, with much in the way of jolly ribbing, that I wouldn't be a good mentor to him if I wouldn't allow him to see his family on Christmas of all days, and I swore that I must meet them."

"Meet me," Draco corrected.

"As you like, but I meant to meet you both. Point is," said Scrimgeour, puffing out a cloud of moist air in his exasperation, "he's a Ministry man through and through." He jerked his head to the house. "Come to the Ministry, by all means," he said, sticking his gloved hands deep into his cloak pockets. "But do keep this lot."

"Yes, sir," said Draco.

"Yes, sir?" said Scrimgeour in surprise.

"Yes," said Draco. "Though I'll have some stipulations."

"Good lad," he replied. "All of that's for later. Go inside and send Molly Weasley's good-for-nothing son back out to me. And a Happy Christmas to you, Harry Potter."

Draco's smile tilted sardonic. "And to you and all of the Ministry, sir."

"Hmm," said Scrimgeour, and watched as Draco moved back inside. Ron's head snapped around to stare at him, but Draco shook his head minutely; Scrimgeour would follow in a moment, was waiting to see the Weasleys' reactions.

Sure enough, the door opened behind Draco and Scrimgeour came through, making much of clapping his hands together and rubbing them energetically to generate some heat. "Thank you, thank you, my dear," he said when Molly pressed a cuppa into his hands, but he tipped it back quickly. "Come along, Percy; much to be done, today."

Draco turned his attention for the first time to Percy Weasley, who still looked just as prim and proper as he recalled from school; he stood with unseemly haste. "Yes, Minister."

"Oh, can't you stay just a bit longer?" Mrs Weasley said; Draco watched Ginny and Ron flush identically, and it was clearer to him than ever how alike they were.

Before Percy could reply, though, Scrimgeour broke in heartily. "Lots to do, lots to do," he said, and ushered Percy away.

"Sensible man, the Minister," said Mr Weasley, and slowly but surely, everyone resumed their meal.


	13. Chapter 13

A few days after New Year's, Ron, Draco and Ginny returned to Hogwarts.

Draco was full of a warmth like a bellyful of hot chocolate or the glow of a crackling fire and the embrace of a familiar armchair. He tried to shake it off as being a sort of feedback from the Potter palimpsest, but even in his Draco-Malfoy-owned mind, he thought that it was good to be back.

The entire Common Room hooted when he and the Weasleys returned, slapping him on the back and grinning, and it took Draco a full thirty seconds to realize they weren't so excited that he was  _The Harry Potter_  so much as excited he was wearing  _The Jacket_.

"Fits like a dream, it does!" Seamus enthused.

"A worthy uniform for our grand and glorious leader," said Dean, eyes twinkling. Ginny wrapped an arm around Dean's waist and snuggled close.

"Thanks so much to everyone," Draco said, hands in the air. "You mad fools," he added, though that only produced a second, equally enthusiastic round of cheers; butterbeers were passed around and they toasted the New Year together.

Hermione must've been attracted by the noise, because she clattered down the steps from the girls' dormitories and threw her arms around Draco and Ron.

" _There_  you are!" she exclaimed. "Feels like it's been  _ages_!"

And it hadn't until she'd said so – he'd had Ron, after all, which was a strange thought in and of itself, and all the noise and bustle of the Burrow. But when he pulled from Hermione's embrace and saw her face, glowing with happiness to see them, he couldn't help but feel a warmth to her warmth, like the moon reflecting the light of the sun.

"Missed you, too, Granger," he said, gruffly, but Hermione was staring straight at Ron.

"I, uh, I've been meaning to talk to you," she said. "Um. In private."

Ron went bright red.

"I was hoping you and Blaise could meet me in the Room of Requirement. Later tonight? Say, after dinner?"

"Me  _and_  Blaise?" said Ron.

She nodded, jaw set, before turning again to Draco. "Oh, Harry – I almost forgot!" She withdrew a familiar-looking note and passed it on. "Looks like you've got another lesson with the Headmaster."

"Ah," said Draco, pocketing the parchment without cracking the seal. He was pretty certain Hermione had changed the subject on purpose.

"So – tell me all about your break!" Hermione enthused, and the trio retreated to a corner of the Common Room to talk about Scrimgeour, and Mrs Malfoy's allegiances, and werewolf reform.

"But that's  _brilliant_ , Harry," Hermione said. "Not just the right thing to do, though of course, it  _is –_ but very strategic, too. If the werewolves know there's a  _chance_  for them to be more accepted in Wizarding Society…"

"It could backfire, too, though," Ron pointed out grimly. "Say the Wizengamot votes the measure down unanimously. How d'you suppose they'd feel, then?"

Hermione nodded. "We'll have to make sure it doesn't come to that, won't we? It doesn't have to pass, just get enough support that werewolves gaining civil rights appears within reach with campaigning and some hard, honest work. Though of course," Hermione said with a sharp look, "it would be best if the measure were to pass."

Draco seriously considered this, weighing it in his mind. He sighed. "I wonder how much it takes to buy a member of the Wizengamot these days?"

Shockingly, both thought he was kidding; Ron rolled his eyes and Hermione slapped his arm.

"What?" he demanded. "How do you  _think_  we're going to ensure the werewolf measure doesn't fall flat? No one on the Wizengamot is currently going to vote yea, except maybe Abershire; she's a sucker for lost causes."

Hermione looked horrorstruck. "Harry, you can't just  _buy_  people's votes…"

"Everyone else is," said Draco. He lit on a metaphor. "It's like there's an exam coming, Hermione, and everyone has a cheat sheet but you. How are you going to pass under those conditions?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed and she leaned forward. "How I always do," she replied sharply. "By being  _that much better_  than everyone else."

"Okay," said Ron, "how?"

Like it was that easy!

"Research," said Hermione – of course. "Find out what each member of the Wizengamot wants, and if it's ethical to give it to them, do so. Politics is all about give and take, right?"

Well. She wasn't  _wrong_ , exactly.

"Fine," said Draco. He looked up sharply at Ron. "Fine, but whatever you do, don't alienate Zabini tonight. Ron, I don't care if he calls your mother names, we can't pull this off without Slytherin support."

"Fine," Ron said sullenly. "For you, Harry." His gaze darted up to meet Hermione's, and he cleared his throat. "And for Werewolf Rights."

"Well said, Ronald," said Hermione, with an indulgent curl to her lip that meant she recognized the metaphor.

Ron, Hermione, and Blaise left dinner at the Great Hall five minutes apart; Ginny seemed to notice and snorted over her peas, but they were either clever enough to avoid detection or the rest of Hogwarts didn't much care.

Draco wanted to stay awake to grill Ron – he was genuinely curious who Hermione had chosen, and thought even Harry, who stayed out of people's business for the most part, would be too – but he eventually moved from the Common Room to his bed when the pair didn't return. Lying there in the dark, the now-familiar thickness of the red velvet curtains ensconcing him in a private world, for the first time in ages his universe fell into a hush. There was no snuffling from Ron, who hadn't returned, no bustle of whoever was still awake in the Burrow. He hadn't felt quite so  _Draco Malfoy_  in ages as he did lying alone there in the dark.

For a few minutes, echoes of the voices he'd heard clamoured around in the confines of his head: Mr and Mrs Weasley, the twins, and above all else Ron, and Hermione, with a hint of Ginny and Blaise. It was as though his brain had been waiting to process their voices, their words, the intonation and the facial expressions when they'd said them until it could sift through them alone.

After a time, the noise sunk low, like the detritus of leaves and topsoil sinking to a riverbed.

Another lesson on the horizon meant more time with Dumbledore – though Draco found himself far less apprehensive this time than the first. If Dumbledore knew who Draco was, he certainly wasn't doing anything about it. If Dumbledore didn't, Draco had fooled him once, and saw no reason why he couldn't fool him again. Surely he'd glean more details about the Dark Lord, and that was all to the good.

He'd owe another letter to his father after that, he supposed, though the only answer he had ever received was Narcissa's visit.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Draco woke to the warm red glow of his velvet curtains full of purpose. He threw them back to find Ron already seated on the edge of his own bed, scrubbing at his tired face.

"All right, Ron?" he said, cautiously.

"Tired as a Niffler in a goldmine," Ron grumbled.

It was a phrase that meant busy with good fortune, so perhaps things had gone well; but Ron wasn't looking dizzy with love, exactly, and that was rather how Draco had pictured things would be if Hermione had thrown herself into his arms.

Draco gave over to curiosity. "What  _happened_?" he demanded.

"Oi,  _mate_ ," Ron growled. "Let a bloke get a shower first at the very least."

"Fine," Draco groused, and went about his morning ablutions himself, wishing the dark green jacket fit well over his robes; he would have liked to have worn it everywhere.

When he emerged into the Common Room, Ron was already there, nursing a cup of tea and seated by the fire. His hair was damp and askew, and he still looked as though he might succumb to sleep at any moment.

"Well?" said Draco, thumping into his favourite chair.

Ron scrubbed his free hand across his forehead and shrugged. "I know we don't," said Ron, sighing. "We  _didn't_  talk about these things, before. I mean, I knew you liked Ginny a bit, but it wasn't like you said anything about it."

 _I did?_  Draco thought,  _I didn't?_  but kept silent.

"So you've got to know how I feel about Hermione. Maybe even so far back as the troll, I've thought the sun rose and set on her, even if I said a lot of things, just so I wouldn't make myself out to be a fool." Ron looked up at Draco and scanned over his face as though cataloguing every line, weighing and measuring something Draco didn't understand. Finally, he said, "I think she's it for me," and swallowed, before looking down.

"Wow," said Draco. He wondered what it could possibly feel like, to look at someone at age eleven and know they were  _it_ for you.

"But she doesn't feel the same way," said Ron steadily. He shifted the mug of tea in his hand and smiled at Draco with half his face. "She wants to see me  _and_  Blaise."

Draco searched for something to say. "She wants to date you – that's a good thing, right?"

"It is," Ron agreed. "I mean it really, really is. She could've asked to just stay friends, or worse, told me to take a long hike."

Draco couldn't help but wonder what this would do to their relationship with the Slytherins. If it had been fraught before…

"What did Blaise have to say about all of this?"

Ron continued offering up that rueful, lopsided smile, strangely neutral sitting on his face. "He was a right gentleman about it, told Hermione he'd be honoured. Shook my hand."

"Sounds like Blaise," said Draco. "But how – that is…?" He took a breath and put politics aside. "Are you all right?"

"Dunno," said Ron, lowering his gaze, eyes flickering as though he were doing some sort of internal diagnostic. "I think so." He thumped his chest with an open palm. "Cracked, I think – not broken."

Draco broke into a smile. "Well," he said. "That's a relief."

Ron returned the smile and took a gulp of hot tea.

When Hermione came clattering down the stairs a few minutes later, Draco turned to look at her with raised brows. She smiled brightly, determinedly, and walked beside Ron closer than ever as they made their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast; but Blaise was standing by the doors, waiting for them. He wore robes embellished with Slytherin's crest embroidered at the collar, and given Ron's attitude towards Slytherin, Draco couldn't help but read a challenge in it.

"Good morning Hermione, Harry. Just needed a quick word with Ron," he said.

Draco frowned at him, but Ron went readily enough; and Draco and Hermione watched at a distance as Blaise spoke lowly, leaning towards Ron. At one point, Blaise reached out and squeezed Ron's shoulder before moving away.

"What was that all about?" Hermione queried, sounding a touch nervous.

"What were you thinking?" Draco hissed in return.

Hermione frowned at him. "I was thinking of a novel solution to an unusual problem!" she returned.

"Two boys interested in you isn't novel," said Draco, "unless you're talking  _romance novel_."

"Well, as I've no desire to be embroiled in the  _drama_  of a romance novel –" Hermione began, but by then Ron had returned, and she clammed up.

When Draco entered the Great Hall, he saw a flash of Malfoy, sitting at the Slytherin table, Pansy speaking to him, angled towards him in what looked like supplication before he turned roughly back to the others. From the dejected angle of the other boy's shoulders, Draco could tell he'd made no progress on the Cabinet, and beyond that…

Beyond that, what did he even matter? Draco thought, turning with a jolt back to his breakfast.

 

* * *

 

That evening, Draco made his way up to Dumbledore's office and took a steadying breath before entering; but all the anxiety from before had dissipated: Dumbledore was no longer a bumbler or even to be feared. He was Harry Potter's mentor, set on helping the boy win the war.

"Hullo, Headmaster," Draco said, closing the door behind him. The portraits on the wall smiled, or yawned, or waved, or scoffed as the temperaments of their subjects dictated. Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, but he stood at Draco's entrance.

"Harry, my boy!" he exclaimed. "I hear you had a visit from the Minister."

Draco nodded. "Yes, sir," he said, clasping his hands behind his back.

"You sent him packing, I expect?"

Did Dumbledore expect that? "No, sir," he countered, shaking his head. "I set conditions."

"Conditions?" Dumbledore peered at Draco over his half-moon spectacles.

Draco jerked his head to the spot he'd sat for the last lesson, and Dumbledore spread his hand in welcome. They both sat before Draco took up his tale, explaining his dealings with Scrimgeour.

"Well, now," said Dumbledore, stroking his beard. "Fascinating. I did not expect you to… well. Werewolf reform, you say? It's a controversial subject…"

"And a worthy one," said Draco, firmly. "Not only is it the right thing to do, but it could sow confusion amongst He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's forces."

Dumbledore's brows raised. "It was my understanding that you always called him by name, my boy," he said. "Remember: fear of the name only increases fear…"

"Yes, sir," said Draco dutifully. "Sorry, I've been working with the DA again, and it really does frighten some of the firsties."

Dumbledore peered at him closely for a moment while Draco sweated through it. "Marchbanks and Ogden are the two to ask for," Dumbledore confided. "Both old as Merlin, and all the power and influence that comes along with being on the Wizengamot for decades – Marchbanks has been a member, oh, nearly a century, now! A woman that ancient and powerful has a spine like steel, and Ogden's no slouch, either."

"Weren't they the two that resigned when Professor Umbridge was assigned to the school?"

Dumbledore tapped his finger to the side of his long, crooked nose. "Good memory, Harry, yes indeed. You'll need strong-willed, principled folk to overturn the 1993 codes so soon. As I recall, they didn't like them, much."

"Ron pointed out that we need a firm showing, or the whole thing could backfire," said Draco.

"Mister Weasley has always been rather good at chess," Dumbledore replied. "Do let me know if there's anything else I can do."

"Thank you, sir," said Draco.

"Now, let us continue with our lessons, Harry," Dumbledore announced. He expounded awhile on the subject of Tom Riddle again, painting him as a young man with ominous connections to all sorts of sordid crimes, none of which could be pinned on him or his friends.

Once more, Draco wished he'd arrive at the point; but once he finally did… once Draco was standing before the memory of Slughorn and Riddle and… and  _Horcruxes_ … Draco nearly swallowed his own tongue.

The Locket that had belonged to Morfin – a Horcrux?  _The diary_  that Riddle had supposedly spouted from… could that have been a Horcrux, too? Draco was rapidly piecing it all together… Tom's habit of collecting little trophies of his most heinous acts… and now, in these memories he was gathering items of special significance… and asking about  _Horcruxes_ … but if all of this was the case, why was Dumbledore not  _saying_  this to Harry, not  _explaining_ it to him? Why not be frank, outright, instead of laying out the pieces so that Harry would put it together on his own?

While Draco reeled silently, Dumbledore returned to sit behind his large, oaken desk. Draco, blinking, moved to seat himself across from the other man.

"As you may have noticed," said Dumbledore, "that last memory was tampered with."

"And I suppose I can guess well enough what's missing!" Draco snapped.

"Can you?" said Dumbledore, steepling his hands.

"Yes, Slughorn explained exactly what a Horcrux is, and perhaps with a little additional wheedling, how one is made!" Draco said. "And then, because he was a professor, and because that's Dark magic, he knew he'd be in trouble for saying it."

Dumbledore leaned forward. "I'm more surprised that you know what a Horcrux is, Harry… without having to ask."

Draco blinked. Didn't  _everyone_ …? Well,  _no_. Certainly Granger wouldn't know. Ron wouldn't have had opportunity to find out unless he'd gone looking, and even then – what sort of book in the Weasley household would contain such information? No, this was something only a young witch or wizard in one of the older (and more old-fashioned) pureblooded Houses would have cause to know… which was indubitably why Riddle hadn't known, growing up as he had.

And that left only one answer.

"Zabini told me about them," he lied smoothly, Occluding with all his might. "We were talking about Dark Magic at a DA meeting and he and I had a conversation about them."

Dumbledore stared. "That surprises me, Harry, that you should be so close with Mr Zabini to have such a conversation… as Professor Slughorn clearly believed – rightly! – that the subject was taboo."

"We've taken the approach in the DA that nothing is taboo," Draco said staunchly.

"Is that so?" said Dumbledore.

But Draco was bound and determined not to be intimidated. " _Yes_ , sir, that's so. We must understand it if we're to counter it."

"That's a very Slytherin response," said Dumbledore, eyeing Draco keenly.

Draco felt his hackles rise, and oddly not on his own behalf. "Do you mean to remind me of the decision the Hat made about me  _every_  time we have a meeting? Or is it all these trips down memory lane that are making you confuse me with Tom Riddle?"

Dumbledore dropped his gaze. "Not at all, my boy; I do apologize." He looked up. "It is only that your thinking has shifted on a few, important matters. I never saw you take an interest in politics, before."

Draco stared, long and hard into the features of the other man. "As Harry Potter," he said, slowly, "I figure I'm bound for politics whether I like it or not. I'd prefer it if my entry into the political sphere were on my own terms. Fighting for a more inclusive Wizarding Britain is those terms."

"Intriguing," said Dumbledore. "And what will you say to those who argue that werewolves already are a threat to Wizarding Britian?"

"That they're dangerous, too," said Draco promptly. "That they can do with a wand far worse than a werewolf can do with his teeth. And that by subsidizing Wolfsbane, any werewolf who accepts will be safe even on the full moon."

"A convenient way for the Ministry to corral and identify werewolves," Dumbledore commented.

"So many will say," Draco agreed. "But the few desperate enough to show up will eventually carry word to the others, and that will help ensure the plan's eventual success."

"Where will these werewolves be supplied?" Dumbledore inquired. "Surely the location must be made public in order to serve the greatest number."

"Yes – of course," Draco replied.

"Convenient," said Dumbledore, "both for them and for those who wish to find them. Even presuming it's not the Ministry."

A sudden, vivid mental image: vigilantes taking out a crowd of werewolves gathering to acquire their supply. He should've thought of that; he would have, if he weren't surrounded by Gryffindors all the time. They were turning his brain to mush.

"Werewolves can have a way of anonymously reporting themselves. The Ministry can afford to send the Wolfsbane via owl."

"Ah, but then who is monitoring them to ensure they take their medicine?" Dumbledore inquired mildly.

"You'd have to keep them imprisoned to manage that degree of certainty!" Draco shot back.

Dumbledore pointed at him. "Precisely. Let's do that." His eyes were twinkling behind his half-moon glasses.

"My idea is not ridiculous," Draco said angrily.

"No," said Dumbledore. "It's a reasonable plan. But the Wizengamot will say far worse than what I have today. Your arguments must be shored up, unassailable - and you cannot take the bait then, as you did just now," he added admonishingly.

"Point taken," Draco said, raking a hand through his dark hair. "We will."

"Who's we, then?" Dumbledore inquired, the lines of his face relaxing to friendliness once more.

"Hermione's on opposition research," said Draco. "Blaise and Ron will probably help. Luna might have a… unique perspective."

"Luna is a good random hypothesis generator," Dumbledore said with a warm smile. "You need one of those in any debate – some people enjoy throwing out arguments, facts, or rationales with the deliberate intent to confound or bemuse their opponents."

"I think I might know someone especially fond of that," said Draco.

"Hmm," said Dumbledore. "I do wish you the best of luck, Harry," he said, placing peculiar emphasis on the word  _luck_.

"Can I ask you one more thing, Professor?"

"Certainly, Harry."

"Why all the memories? Why these lessons? I can put it together already; surely you have as well… how he's survived this long, I mean. What's the point in handing it to me piecemeal this way?"

Dumbledore smiled gently. "Harry, it has come to my attention that you don't enjoy being told what to think, how to feel, or what to believe. By coming to the conclusion based off of the information I have given you, you will be more confident in your course than if I had simply laid out what I had discovered and presented to you all of my conclusions. Conclusions one reaches oneself are more credible."

"Oh," said Draco.

Dumbledore tapped the side of his nose again. "Now, Mister Potter, do remember that when the time comes to make your political arguments."

Draco stood. "Yes, sir, I… thank you."

Because he was well aware that if Dumbledore had simply  _told him_  about Horcruxes, and to use this information to end the Dark Lord, he…

He never would have changed how he thought about Riddle, never would have seen him small and frightened and  _hateful_ , never would have understood how his mind worked, never would have known what it would mean to take him down or why people thought it was so important save that it kept his family safe…

"That, Harry, and I do enjoy spending time with you."

"Yes, sir, I enjoy hearing what you have to say as well," Draco said, bowing.

"A charming old custom," said Dumbledore, and bowed in turn. "Good evening, Harry."

Draco thought he could hear his only ancestor huff a bit from his portrait: "well, it appears our Savior isn't  _entirely_  mush-for-brains, Dumbledore…"

High praise indeed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, very full week! Hope you enjoyed it and don't forget to leave a review in the tip jar!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One clever reviewer caught that it would be very strange for Ron and Hermione not to have noticed the Harry (and) Draco on the Map, so I may have to retcon that -- good catch!
> 
> Okay, strap in, everyone...

Draco caught up to Blaise outside the Potions room right before their lesson on antidotes and took up his arm, pulling him aside. Blaise straightened his Slytherin robes and put on his best, most affable smile, though even Draco could see it looked distinctly queasy. "Hullo, Potter; can I help you?"

"I hope so," said Draco. "Have you heard anything about Horcruxes?"

Blaise hustled him away from the Potions classroom, tucking them in an alcove where passers-by wouldn't catch sight of them. "Merlin's sake, Potter, don't go spouting off about that in the middle of the hallway where anyone can hear!"

"So you have," Draco checked, ducking his head and gazing into Blaise's eyes. He caught a skittering of Legilimency that said Blaise knew the vague outlines of what a Horcrux was, and nodded. "Sorry, I told Dumbledore that you told me."

Blaise's features shuttered. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"He wanted to know how I knew about them," Draco said plainly.

"Let's leave aside why you were looking to learn about them in the first place and jump straight to why you named me," Blaise hissed. "Was I the first Slytherin that came to mind?"

"The first from a traditional  _pureblood_ family," Draco returned. "Listen, I didn't mean to get you into trouble; just imagine how much I'd have been in, if Dumbledore thought his precious Potter was looking into the darkest of Dark magic!"

"Which begs the question of why he  _was_ ," Blaise returned. He eyed Draco. "You aren't going Dark, are you, Potter? You'll break the hearts of good little boys and girls everywhere."

Draco heard genuine concern behind the taunt, so he clapped Blaise's shoulder. "No," he said, pulling on the Potter palimpsest to ensure he looked earnest and true. "I learned about it the same way you did, I'm sure – by looking for something else. You know I'm learning how to counter these Dark magics for the DA, so of course I'm reading up on them."

Blaise eyed him. "You're a lot more Slytherin than you look," he said, voice tinged with respect. He sighed. "A lot more Slytherin than your friends."

"You don't know the half of it," Draco muttered, raking his hand through his hair. "Look, Blaise, I'm not about to become the next Dark Lord. I haven't got it in me. I'm just trying to protect everyone, and to do that I sometimes have to look at things I'd rather the others didn't have to see."

Blaise sighed, crossing his arms. "Very well."

"One more thing," said Draco.

"Oh, you aren't through spoiling my day?" Blaise muttered.

Draco smiled. "Oh, I was only wondering if you'd heard about the Defense meeting next week," he said. "We're going to cover some of the wand motions to uncover deleterious potions."

The lines of Blaise's face relaxed into relief. "Oh! Yes, of course; Hermione told me…"

"Wonderful. And I presume you'll be dragging Crabbe and Goyle in your wake?"

Blaise's expression froze, and for a moment Draco thought he was going to actually say he'd never met anyone named Crabbe or Goyle, he looked so blank-faced. But finally, a furrow appeared at his brow. "You've got to stop volunteering Hermione for things," Blaise said. "You've got her tutoring the DA in resisting the Imperius Curse, doing opposition research on the entire Wizengamot, and now you want her to look after the slowest two students in our year?"

Draco blinked, a grin creeping slowly across his face. "You really are quite fond of her, aren't you?" he said. "Fine. Thanks for volunteering, Blaise. Take Crabbe and Goyle off her hands; they're more used to following a pureblooded wizard anyway."

Blaise frown deepened. "No, no. They need Hermione. Give me the opposition research."

"Done." Draco allowed his smile to grow distinctly nasty, pushing the Potter palimpsest aside. "And if you hurt her," he said, "I'll destroy you and make it look like Death Eaters."

For a moment, Blaise looked appropriately intimidated, but then he blinked his shock away into a surprising burst of warmth Draco wasn't sure he could trust. "If I hurt either of them, eh? More Slytherin than you look, Potter," he repeated.

"I mean it, Blaise."

"So did Ron, before he and I came to an understanding."

Draco tilted his head to one side, raising both brows in invitation.

"Mutual heartbreak," said Blaise, with a half-smile so like Ron's from the evening before that Draco had to blink a few times before he believed his eyes, "the great equalizer." He jerked his head in the direction of the Potions classroom. "Come along, then, Potter, or we'll be late."

"Hmph," said Draco, but he followed Blaise into the Potions classroom. "Hey – did you chip in for the jacket?"

Blaise's lips twitched. "Of course I did. So did Pansy and Millie, you know."

"Of course. Sorry," said Draco.

Blaise clapped him on the back. "You started off the year opening your circle to Slytherin, and it's working. Relax."

Malfoy looked up from the back, left-hand corner of the Potions room to glare at them both, eyeing Blaise's hand on Draco's shoulder and curling his lip.

"Relax," said Draco. "Sure."

 

* * *

 

Between the Wizengamot research, planning and carrying out the lessons with the DA, meetings with Dumbledore, and their ridiculously heavy NEWT courseloads - including a fiendishly difficult antidotes lessons in Potions and practicals in Defense and Transfigurations - Draco found himself wondering more than once where Hermione Granger had time for a boyfriend, never mind for two.

Perhaps that was why Zabini had taken to spending time in their Common Room, and as he was generally well-regarded in the DA due to his willingness to help with the Imperius Curse, few of the Gryffindors batted an eye.

He could be found, sometimes, sitting with Hermione as she did her homework, tucking her wild hair away from her face, bringing her a drink, or poring over his own work or a novel a few times a week; eventually, it stopped being strange.

But when Luna waltzed in one evening and drifted over to their small group by the crackling fire, Draco stood in surprise. "Luna!" he said.

" _Harry_!" she exclaimed, with the usual, unwonted force she gave the name these days. "Hullo; I heard from some of the others that you were all hanging around here, but if it's just Blaise who's allowed since he's dating Hermione, that's fine."

Hermione looked up from where she was revising, cheeks pinked by more than the flames. "Er, no, Luna, we'd love it if you joined us…"

"Sure, yes, absolutely, don't be distracting," said Blaise, who was scrawling an essay for Snape with manic speed.

"Lovely, I've got a Potions assignment that seems,  _well_ , as though Slughorn might have allowed the Trebachets to wriggle through his hands and manifest on the board," she said solemnly, "and I could use some help…"

"That's  _it_ ," said Ron angrily, storming down the stairs; but he was brought up short by the cosy sight of all of them sprawled out before the fire. Seeing Hermione's and Blaise's heads bent so close, he swallowed, then visibly rallied, stomping over to them. He shook a box in his hands. "Romilda  _Vane_ ," he added, as though that explained everything.

"What is it, Ron?" said Hermione, looking up.

"Well, I was practising the Charms we learned last DA and I pointed it at the box on a bloody lark," said Ron. "Only it came up positive. Harry, tell me Romilda Vane didn't give you these."

Draco's eyes widened. "Er…"

"Because either her crush has turned murderous, or she's got a love potion in," Ron growled.

Blaise stood. "Someone needs to have a word with Vane," he said coolly.

"That's really unethical," Luna warbled. "You should go to her Head of House."

"No," said Hermione, standing as well. "Remember the Imperius Curse! It could be real poison, Ron. Let's take it to Slughorn. Even if it is a love potion designed to wear off in a few hours, he'll want to know where she got it, and he'll want to check his ingredient stores and see if she brewed the thing herself. Not that I credit a girl with such a –  _silly nature_  – with being so clever, but stranger things have happened."

"Fine! But this has got to stop," said Ron, and Draco had learned it wasn't worth trying to stop Ron in a froth. So the group gave him his head and let him stomp forward holding the chocolate box, Hermione's arm tucked into Blaise's.

"Did you have a good break?" said Luna, tucking her arm into Draco's. "I feel we haven't had much of a chance to chat…"

"I did," said Draco. "And you?"

"I did," she replied. "Father didn't fix a hole in the roof, and so it whistled: it told me the most interesting stories! I wondered, too, how you were doing at the Burrow. I'm sure it's," she said, pausing.

"It was brilliant," Draco said, forcefully – before realizing that more than anyone else, Luna was someone to whom he had nothing to prove.

"I'm glad." She paused. "These sorts of spells are time-delimited in all the tales, aren't they?" she said after a thoughtful moment. "I've begun to wonder when your time will be up."

Draco would later wonder if she didn't have a touch of prescience.

"Not that I'm not fond of your company!" she exclaimed, patting his hand. "I am,  _ever_  so. But I do miss Harry."

Draco fumbled for words. "I… perhaps I do, myself. In a way. But Luna…"

She turned to him, colourless eyes wide. "Mmm?"

Slughorn was opening the door to his offices, yawning and looking perturbed at the interruption, then worried when he saw all of them arrayed in the hall, Ron distinctly wrathful, shaking the chocolate box in his hand wordlessly as though it were explanation enough.

It would have been easy to employ Slughorn's appearance as a distraction, but Draco rested his free hand atop Luna's and prevented her from hurrying after the other three into Slughorn's rooms.

"Luna," he said. "Luna, I don't know that it's possible."

She turned to him, face open. "That what's possible? Most things are  _possible_ , I find."

Draco didn't let himself wince. This wasn't his sorrow to bear, even though sometimes…

 _Nonsense,_ he told himself sharply.  _Don't pretend that you knew him, that you were_  close!

"For you to get Potter back," Draco said, gently.

"What?" said Luna.

Draco darted a glance towards the open door. "Potter is not… retrievable."

Luna's eyes went impossibly wider. "You think he's  _dead_?"

"Yes."

Luna's hand dropped from his arm and she blinked several times, swiftly, half-turning away.

"Luna…"

She held up a hand for silence, and Draco waited.

When she looked up again, her eyes were shining with unshed tears. "You said you're sure you didn't plan it."

Draco shook his head. "I didn't," he said. He shook his head again, ducking it so he didn't have to look at the raw accusation in the girl's pale eyes. "But I might as well have. I would've hurt him if I could've. I was – things were different."

Luna nodded, vehemently. "You certainly were!" But then she shook her head. "No matter what,  _Harry_ , we aren't responsible for our nastiest  _thoughts_. You didn't plan it, it happened to you. All the same…" She looked up, and her cheeks were wet with tears. "His face! You have his  _face_ , and his  _eyes_ , and his  _everything_ , you  _took_  it and you  _have_ it and you  _can't give it back…!_ "

A scream sounded from the open door, and Draco darted for it, heart in his mouth – the bravery must live in Potter's  _skin_ , he thought, running towards the sounds of danger…

Ron was convulsing on Slughorn's expensive Persian rugs, foam spilling from his mouth as he seized, an empty glass by his outstretched hand…

"Oh  _no_ ," breathed Luna.

Hermione was trembling. "How do we – how do we figure out the poison  _fast_ enough… wait, wait,  _wait,_ " she said, and vaulted Slughorn's table, to reach Slughorn's Potions kit, throwing things around. " _Blaise!_ " she shouted, and the other boy looked up just in time to catch the item she'd thrown him, ducking down to Ron and stuffing the object into his mouth.

Ron went limp and sightless, his wheezed breathing sounding in the pin-drop silence of the room.

" _Shove a beozar down their throats_ ," said Hermione. "The Prince's book…"

Draco found himself by Ron's side without any idea of how he'd crossed the intervening space. He looked up to find Blaise staring down at Ron with a curiously blank expression.

"Come on," said Luna, tugging at Draco's sleeve. "Come on, let's get him to the infirmary…"

"Professor," Hermione added with razor-sharpness, "you'll come with us." Her fierce gaze darted to the table, where an innocent-looking decanter still stood.

"And bring the mead," she growled.

 

* * *

 

The group camped outside the Hospital Wing after Madam Pomfrey booted them out. They watched Snape and Dumbledore rush inside, closing the doors behind them, and Hermione began to cry. Blaise wrapped his arm around her and she turned into his chest.

Draco wondered if Luna would like an arm around her, too, before deciding she definitely would not. She kept eyeing him uncertainly.

But after sitting there a full twenty minutes, she opened her own arm, and Draco tentatively leaned into her, instead.

"There, there," she said. "He'll be all right. Think of Katie – she was cursed much longer, and I hear she's due out of the Wing in a few days if she continues to improve."

"It looked like Katie's curse," said Blaise, "didn't it? Like convulsions."

Hermione sat up. "You think the two are connected."

"They have to be. Don't they?" said Blaise. "You lot are the ones who are so experienced at derring-do," he said.

Hermione felt for his hand, gripping it hard, before turning to the others. "I believe if we were to question Slughorn, we'd find that the bottle in his possession was meant for Dumbledore, somehow – like the necklace was."

Draco turned to her, slowly. "Malfoy. He did this?"

His ears were ringing; he shook his head to ward off the noise, but it was so loud he had to lift one hand to the side of his head.

" –oy," Hermione was saying. "Harry, are you  _listening_  to me? We agreed on this, we  _agreed_  that it's some Death-eater-in-training, but you don't know it's Draco Malfoy!"

Draco shook his head, not looking at her. "You won't believe me. Of course you won't; I haven't got any proof, and you'd need proof before labelling anyone a murderer… you and Albus Dumbledore…"

"Harry, please, you're scaring me," said Hermione, wet eyes wide.

"Oh, scaring  _you_ , I'm not scaring you," Draco spat, "nothing scares  _you_. Not exams or Death Eaters or werewolves and certainly not Draco Malfoy!" He stood.

" _Silencio!_ " Blaise cast, and yanked Draco away from the doors; it was only then that he realized Snape and Dumbledore were emerging from the Wing…

Luna tugged him back and they flanked him, Luna on one side and Hermione on the other, Blaise with his wand drawn before them, looking half-wild himself. Draco had the mad thought that if Snape saw them crouching in the shadows, Blaise might take it into his head to hex him, he looked that fierce. Luckily, neither man gazed in their direction; but Draco heard Hermione cast a Disillusionment charm on their huddled little group, anyway.

"…to start with your own House," Dumbledore was saying quietly.

Draco froze, watching as Dumbledore passed Snape, placing a paternal hand on his shoulder.

Dumbledore said something too low for Draco to hear, then: "…are accelerating… all faster than we'd hoped…"

"I understand," said Snape. "But you ask so much of me. Are you even aware of how much I have borne for you? Do you have the slightest care?" He gazed around himself as though only just now realizing he and Dumbledore were ostensibly in public; Blaise shrank back, but he still kept the others behind him, one iron hand around Draco's forearm.

"I do," said Dumbledore. "But needs must, my boy."

Snape slumped, and Draco could have sworn his eyes glittered, and not with malice. "You'll be the death of me, old man," he said.

" _Hopefully_  not," said Dumbledore, and there was a beat of silence before both men chuckled as if at some shared joke, though Draco thought Snape's laugh sounded harsh and lonesome as the cawing of a crow.

"Poor boy," said Dumbledore, after a moment.

"Which one?" said Snape.

"Ah," said Dumbledore. "Neither. The Weasley boy, I meant."

Snape waved a hand. "Oh, he'll be all right."

Draco slumped, and it was only Blaise's firm grip that kept him from thumping to the floor. The hall was spinning again, and Draco took fresh gulps of air. Potter had the tendency to lose consciousness, he thought… he'd never seen anybody lose consciousness as many times a year as Potter did… he himself had already lost consciousness as Potter a few times already… he wouldn't let it happen again... he needed to hear the rest, and he  _refused_...

"…few days in the Hospital Wing, keep taking essence of rue…" Snape was saying, and then the pair disappeared down the hall.

Draco saw that Hermione had both hands clapped over her mouth; tears were running down her cheeks, and she reached blindly for them until even Luna consented to be pulled in. For a long moment, they breathed together.

Blaise raised his wand and Draco nodded in acquiescence. The blind rage had bled away, leaving him weak. Blaise cast a wordless  _Finite_ , and the impediment on Draco's voice fell away.

He felt the way he had when Voldemort had told him he would lose his parents unless he was successful. These were  _Potter's_  feelings, he tried to tell himself, firmly. This was all how  _Potter_  felt, just the palimpsest with its deathgrip on his emotions, who was Ron Weasley to him, anyway? No one. Just one of the redheaded, poverty-stricken Weasleys, a sickle a dozen; Merlin, if Ron had been killed, Mr and Mrs Weasley would probably just have had two more.

But the thoughts felt foreign and revolting, like a scrim of mold over rotting fruit.

Mr and Mrs Weasley weren't contemptible caricatures of blood traitors any more than Ron was. Mr Weasley was trusting and friendly and funny, and Mrs Weasley gave hugs that went a little too long and were a little too desperate. And their Christmas mantel was strung with hand-looped garlands and they didn't deserve this.

"Mr and Mrs Weasley will have been called by now," Draco said. "We can't let them face this alone. Does Ginny know?"

"We'll be able to see them approach from here," Luna said.

"Draco Malfoy," Blaise said, plainly. "How sure are you?"

"He told you he was planning something, on the train to Hogwarts," Draco said. "Something big."

"He did," Blaise confessed warily. "He didn't say what."

"That he was given a monumental task. That it would elevate his family…"

"Were you there under the Invisibility Cloak?"

Draco paused, remembering Harry's face crunching under his boot. "…yes."

"What was it?"

"Killing Albus Dumbledore," Draco said. "Only… he's missed. Twice."

"Harry!" Hermione gasped. "Are you  _sure_?"

"The necklace. The mead," said Blaise.

"Yes. But it's worse than that," said Draco. "He intends to bring the Death Eaters to Hogwarts, through a Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Requirement."

Blaise stared into Draco's features, eyes wide; Draco didn't even try to Occlude. Even if Blaise could, he no longer cared. Luna had a deathgrip on his arm, and Hermione was blink-blinking, as though she could scarcely believe it.

"How do you know all of this?" Blaise said.

"I can't tell you," said Draco.

"Did you tell Dumbledore?" Hermione pressed.

Draco nodded. "He said we needed to give him a chance."

"Oh Merlin," said Blaise.

"He nearly killed Ron with that chance," said Draco, "and I won't take any more chances."

"So, what? You intend to kill him?" Hermione whispered, fiercely.

Blaise scoffed. "What do you think will happen, next?  _Think_ , Potter. Even the Savior of the Wizarding World can't go killing people he doesn't like."

It was much what Mr Weasley had said, and coming first from a Gryffindor and then from a Slytherin, Draco felt bound to take it as good advice.

"Fine, then. We'll ensure he's expelled." Draco's gaze darted up. "Get Pansy in on it and convince her it's for his own good, that he'll end in Azkaban or worse if he doesn't leave Hogwarts immediately, and he won't suspect a thing. I've seen her face, she's worried enough to agree."

A distinctly malevolent smile was making its way across Blaise's face.

"Never liked him much, did you?" said Draco, eyeing him.

"Who does?" said Blaise. "Pansy excepted, I mean."

"Hang on," said Hermione, raising a hand in the air. "For what crime are we going to get him expelled?"

"For attempted murder," said Draco. "Obviously."

"Do you believe Malfoy would be so foolish as to keep the ingredients lying around after he'd made a poison?" Blaise returned.

Draco's lips thinned. "We'll just have to plant them, then."

"That's too  _suspicious_ ," said Hermione. "A dozen things could give us away, and if it went wrong, we'd be in trouble and he'd be near-untouchable."

Luna tilted her head to one side. "Has anyone considered talking to him?"

When the others stared, she raised pale brows in Draco's direction.

"It doesn't seem to have occurred to anyone else why he might have done such a thing," she commented – sharply, for Luna – "when he never has, before."

Hermione started to stammer something about there always needing to be a  _first_  serious crime, but Luna was implacable.

" _Harry_ ," she said, "what do you suppose could be the reason for Draco to do such a thing?"

"His family was threatened," Draco parroted.

"Remove the danger, and we remove the threat," Luna said serenely.

"Oh, so shall I go and off Voldemort  _now_?" Draco queried. "I was only awaiting  _permission_."

Luna's lips quirked. "I mean," she said, "spirit away Mr and Mrs Malfoy, someplace he'll know they're safe."

"By convincing Dumbledore they're in danger?" said Hermione, curiously.

"That could actually work," said Blaise, slowly. "Dumbledore would have connections, places to tuck them away where he wouldn't think to look."

"We might not be able to plant evidence for a specific crime," Hermione mused, "but I think it would be easier to build a case for the Malfoys being in danger, and for that having the potential to influence Draco's actions."

"That still requires we make a case for him being dangerous," Draco argued.

"Does it?" said Luna. "Couldn't we say they're just in trouble and they need help?"

"We'll have to plan out our arguments carefully…" Hermione said, and Blaise smiled at her a little hopelessly, as though he could barely help himself.

But before their plotting could go much further, the Weasleys came rushing down the hall, Dumbledore at their side; Draco caught sight of one curler still wound in Mrs Weasley's hair. The tiny group crept 'round the corner to pretend to have just come from Gryffindor, and they went  _en masse_  to visit Ron, only he still hadn't woken.

Later, Draco and Hermione stumbled through the Fat Lady's portrait exhausted and morose to find that half of Gryffindor was awake; Professor McGonagall had come in and woken Ginny, who had inadvertently woken her dorm-mates, and from there a wave of panic had extended to the rest of her House like waves lapping up from a lakeside. The first face Draco could make out in the sea of unsettled features was Cormac McLaggen's.

"Shame," he said feelingly, reaching out for Draco's hand to shake; Draco took it and shook in sheer surprise, glancing down in shock when Cormac patted his clasped hand. "So, you'll be wanting a replacement Keeper, given that Weasley's down for the count, and we both know who's best for the job…"

The next thing Draco knew, McLaggen was sprawled out on the Common Room floor and his fist was stinging as though he'd burnt it on a kettle. Shaking it out, he pointed down at McLaggen, who was clasping his streaming nose and cursing loudly. "Ron almost died, you utter  _waste of space!_ " He took one, threatening step closer, and McLaggen scrambled back.

Hermione was at his side, and for a moment, Draco thought she meant to drag him away from McLaggen, but her voice was fierce when she shouted at him. "There's a time and a place, McLaggen!"

McLaggen scrambled to his feet. "You can't treat me like this," he swore, speaking through a spatter of blood. "You can't speak to me this way! You'll regret this!" he growled, and lumbered off.

The Common Room fell to dead silence as he stomped up the steps, and the door rattled on its hinges as he slammed it behind him; Draco figured the rest of Gryffindor was awake, now.

"Will he be all right?" Lavender Brown murmured into the lull.

"He will, Lavender," Hermione said comfortingly. "I'm sure Harry didn't mean to cause a stir, or worry anybody," she said, elbowing him.

Draco cleared his throat. "Sorry, everyone. Ron will be all right. But it's left me rather – out-of-sorts." He looked up the stairs after McLaggen. "I don't know even McLaggen deserved all that. Thomas, you've a deft hand with an  _Episkey_  – mind braving the lion's den?"

Dean shrugged and tipped an imaginary hat, making his way up the stairs after McLaggen. There was some subsequent shouting from the seventh-year dormitory that Draco and the others did their best to ignore.

"All right, Harry?" said Seamus.

"We've got to stop this." He looked up, seeing nearly half the members of the DA and added, "I'll be speaking to Dumbledore soon, and hopefully we can figure out where our security is failing."

"It doesn't take a Mastery to figure it out," said Ginny, stumbling through the portrait-hole. "It's a student who's making all this trouble. It's the only thing that makes sense." She sighed. "Katie says she's out tomorrow – guess we've replaced one Gryffindor patient for another."

Draco could feel Hermione, still pressed up against his side, hold her breath; but he didn't bring up Draco Malfoy. He feared some over-eager DA member would try and take him out personally, and that couldn't end well.

Dean descended the stair to loop his arm around his girlfriend, and together they made their way to a couch; some of the girls clustered there made room for Ginny to sit.

"Who could be doing it, though?" said Lavender, holding hands with Parvati.

Parvati squeezed Lavender's hand and stood. "Listen, we all heard Hermione the last time something like this happened: they weren't after her, they were after Dumbledore. These two events must be connected. So who could've had the opportunity to get an order to murder the Headmaster?"

"It's got to be a Slytherin," Ginny mused, and Dean nodded.

"Easy," said Hermione, hands in the air.

"We know you're  _dating_  one," Lavender interjected. "No one's saying it's Blaise."

"No one's even saying it's  _Pansy_ ," Parvati muttered.

"No one's saying it's anyone in the DA at all," Seamus tacked on.

The Gryffindors were edging perilously close to the truth.

"We're going to discuss it with the Headmaster at the earliest possible opportunity," Hermione said. "For now, no witch hunts, please!"

Everyone turned to stare.

"Errrr, Muggle saying," Hermione said swiftly. "It means to accuse and assault someone without proof!"

"What do you say, Harry?" Seamus prompted. "You've been havering on about Malfoy for ages."

Draco shifted uncomfortably, but everyone had heard him say it, so denying it outright was out of the question. "I do think there's a possibility it's Malfoy," he said, "but I'm not doing anything about it until I speak to Dumbledore."

There was some muttering about this, and Draco found himself thinking that if the Headmaster didn't do something about Draco Malfoy, he'd have a posse eager to take up the cause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretend a clever author's note is sitting here; I'm still hyperventilating.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chance to jump ship before the shipping...

Draco had little luck with sleeping, so he threw the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders and crept down to the Hospital Wing at the crack of dawn.

It was a substantial shock, therefore, to see that someone had beaten him to the punch. Or several someones.

The entire Slytherin DA was clustered around Ron's bedside: Pansy and Blaise, Millie and the tiny blonde Slytherin, Crabbe and Goyle and Urquhart. Draco shrank back against the inside of the doorway, but all he heard was soft voices and even the rise of a brittle laugh that sounded a lot like Ron's. Moments later, the Slytherins departed for the door; Draco kept his back pressed to the wall, but he heard Millicent say to Pansy, "see? He's all right, then," as they slipped out into the still-darkened hall.

Draco turned to see that Blaise had – predictably? Yes, it was predictable, now, Blaise's concern for Ron – stayed behind. He crept closer, careful to ensure he stepped only into the shadows of other objects.

"…near lost their minds, you know," Blaise was saying. He stood with one hand pressed to Ron's cot. Ron was pale and there were purple smudges under each of his eyes, but he was looking up at Blaise attentively, alertly, absorbing every word. "I hear Potter decked McLaggen for asking if he'd take your spot on the team."

Ron laughed, then clutched at his chest with one hand as though the motion pained him. "As he should've. Wanker."

Just the sound of Ron's voice forming complete sentences made Draco's heart turn over, and he simultaneously felt so terror-stricken and so relieved that he nearly – something.

He crouched by Ron's bed a moment and tried to escape the Potter palimpsest, because it was making him feel like he was on the verge of a heart attack, hand clutched over his chest, that now-familiar tightness catching also at his throat…

But there was no other voice, no other perspective he could summon, but that he would never forgive himself for letting something happen to Ron Weasley. He closed his eyes and tried to conjure it like a Charm, like a Curse – the voice that rang with rotten authority, branding the Weasleys of the world nobodies, the voice that named Hermione  _Mudblood_ : those eyes that had skimmed all of Hogwarts without once resting on any of it, all of it unreal, a backdrop for his own great Story, but it was gone. It was gone, maybe forever… it was all real, now.  _They_  were all real, touchable and three-dimensional, and kinder than he deserved.

"…relieved," Blaise said, smiling, and it was a smile Draco had only ever seen the edges of, before. "When we saw you on the floor…"

"Bet you were right glad, thinking you'd get Hermione all to yourself," Ron said, playful.

"No," said Blaise, swiftly. Then, more softly: "no."

Ron looked up, confused, shrugging, on the cusp of a denial, when Blaise caught his chin with one finger, forcing his chin up.

Ron frowned, lips parting as if to argue but searching blindly for a topic, not sure where to land, when Blaise leaned forward and pressed their lips together, brief, chaste, before pulling back.

Draco jerked back; luckily he wasn't near anything that could make a noise.

Ron gawped soundlessly, bright pink, and Blaise issued a laugh.

"Hey!" Ron growled, features darkening. "That's not funny!"

Blaise mastered himself, expression going from mirthful to sombre. "It is a  _little_ ," he protested, features gone warm and fond.

"Slytherins," Ron cursed, still staring at Blaise as though he'd grown a second head. "A kiss isn't a joke."

"It wasn't meant to be," said Blaise. "All the same, I couldn't help but laugh." He stood quiet, then, eyes cast down in a way that seemed utterly foreign to him.

Ron considered a moment. Draco recognized his  _marshalling-arguments_  face. "Listen, I know you want the best for your friends and family after the War. So… you might feel like you have to… pretend to be someone you're not? Go further to impress the people closest to Harry, more than you normally would, or, or, uh,  _make connections_  you wouldn't normally want to make." He was giving Blaise his most sombre, most earnest face, now - the one that had taken Draco utterly aback in his first day as Harry Potter. "But you don't have to plot anything else when I'm already on your  _side_."

Blaise looked up and pressed his lips to Ron's again, longer this time, harder pressure, tinged with desperation as though he couldn't help it. Ron made a strange, helpless little noise, his hands curling and uncurling on the cot, empty. And when Blaise drew back, Ron gasped, staring.

"You're just so  _good_ ," said Blaise, raising one hand as if to frame Ron's face before dropping his hand, blinking. He stood, abrupt. "It's probably just that I was sure you were going to die, for a moment –"

"Okay," said Ron, looking up and blinking.

"This is stupid. This was stupid," said Blaise, tone sharp. Castigating himself.

"Yeah, all right," Ron agreed gamely.

But Blaise didn't leave, standing rigidly. "I'll have to talk to Hermione about this," he said.

"Good idea," said Ron.

"Say something, damn you," Blaise bit off.

"Frankly, you've caught me a bit on the back foot," said Ron. "I'm a little thrown."

"Oh Merlin," said Blaise, "this is ridiculous."

"First sensible thing you've said," said Ron, cracking a grin and looking far more at ease, settling back on the pillows.

"Can we just forget that happened?" Blaise said weakly. "Call it an accident?"

"Or two accidents?" said Ron. "In a row?"

Blaise dragged his hands down his face. "Yes? Yes."

"Sure," said Ron. "Chalk it up to you being really glad I'm alive. If the whole DA is going to be as enthusiastic as you, though, I'd best rest up."

Blaise groaned.

"Giant chasms never open up below your feet when you want them?"

Blaise gave a more genuine laugh and reached out a final time, but he only ruffled Ron's hair.

Ron looked a little bashful in response, but when the Hospital Wing door closed behind the other boy, he slumped, cursing quietly to himself.

Draco weighed the awkwardness of announcing himself against the awkwardness of Ron needing to explain the whole thing, later – for he had no doubt Ron would try – and decided he had best let Ron decide what to say on his own terms. He gave Ron enough time to doze a little, for window-light to creep across the floor and warm the edge of his Hospital cot. He watched Ron's chest rise and fall in sleep, heard Katie turn over and looked up to see her sitting up in her own bed.

Draco drew the Invisibility Cloak from his shoulders and rearranged his hair into some semblance of order. He looked up and caught Katie's eye, and made his way over to her bedside.

"Hi," he whispered.

She smiled and waved, enthusiastically.

"Voice still not cooperating?" he wondered.

She shrugged, displaying even, shiny teeth.

"Worse things?"

She nodded.

"Looking forward to having you back on the team, Katie Bell," said Draco, squeezing her shoulder.

Her eyes brimmed suddenly.

"Don't doubt it," he said. "First time I saw you play, I thought,  _that's a professional Quidditch player who stumbled into a lower-form_." His lips quirked. "First time this year, I mean – at tryouts."

She nodded, and wiped at her cheeks.

"First thing McLaggen says when he hears Ron is hurt is to ask for his position."

Katie pulled a face, sticking out her tongue.

"I know, right?" said Draco. "Shameless."

Katie's gaze transferred over to where Ron lay, freckles dark against his pale face.

"He'll be all right," Draco said. "Maybe just a few more days."

The grin made its second appearance, but then her brow furrowed. She drew her fingers around her throat and then mimed tipping a cup to her lips.

"No one knows," he replied.

She frowned, exaggeratedly exasperated with him.

"Try to get one past you, eh?"

She shrugged, smiled gamely: a  _well, go on_ , sort of smile.

Draco supposed she'd hear it soon enough. "Everyone's saying Draco Malfoy," he said.

She raised one hand in the air, jolted her chin up and gazed down her nose at him, mouthing something.

Draco squinted at her lips and when it came clear doubled over with helpless laughter.

_My father will hear about this._

"That's not bad," he said once he'd mastered himself. "You should take that on the road."

A grin and a wink.

"You don't think it's him. It's fascinating: no one does, but me," said Draco. "Which is ironic beyond the telling of it, believe you me."

She shrugged.

"He doesn't seem capable of it, does he? For all his posturing."

Katie didn't say anything, just continued to look encouraging.

"But sometimes, there are parts of people," he said. "That not everyone gets to see." He looked up to find Katie still listening, intent. "Don't get me wrong: I don't think he enjoyed any of it. But I do think he did it and he meant to do it, and I'm not even sure he's sorry. That he has the ability to be."

Katie frowned and reached for his shoulder, squeezing.

"Sorry. I guess it all sounds more personal than it should."

Her gaze lingered on Ron's sleeping form.

"Well. That, too. But more personal than that. Hard to explain." He dragged his hands down his face. "Honestly I'm not sure how much longer I can…"

But Ron began to stir, and it was easy for them to both see him shift, staring at him as they were.

"Hey, Katie… I'm glad you're feeling better," Draco said, standing.

She smiled wryly up at him, grabbing for his hand and giving it a squeeze.

"Happy to have you back, whenever you're ready," he added, with his return squeeze, before departing to stand beside Ron's bed.

"Hey. Ron," he said, and Ron turned over, eyes blinking open.

"Harry," he said, voice scratchy, wiping at his eyes, reflexive smile relaxing his features as he looked up into his best friend's face.

"Hi," said Draco, smiling down at him. He frowned. "A little young to be on the mead, aren't you?"

Ron groaned and covered his whole face with his pillow.

"It's what you get for drinking underage, I say," Draco pontificated. "Totally, totally justifies the attempted murder," he added, but his voice cracked on  _murder_ , and the Hospital Wing wavered.

Ron eased the pillow from his face and looked up uncertainly. "I'm okay," he said.

"I know you are," said Draco, half turning away and wiping at his eyes, before repeating, more sternly, "I know you are."

"Good," said Ron. "Not getting rid of me that easily. Now, tell me where Blaise is with the opposition research."

Draco laughed and together they spoke until breakfast came and went, and right up to when Draco would be late for his first class. He waved goodbye to Ron and Katie as he exited the Hospital Wing, full of buoyant relief, carried along in its current. When he saw Hermione, whose panicked glance dissolved when she lit on him, he wrapped his arms around her tightly, and she squeezed him to her just as desperately.

"He's all right," Draco said. "He's going to be all right."

 

* * *

 

Dumbledore had picked the worst of times to travel, Draco thought angrily – it was almost as though he'd done it on purpose, though perhaps it was something to do with their current situation. Perhaps Dumbledore was hunting for a solution just as fervently as they were, but it felt like an abandonment and a betrayal when Draco had to wait and stew.

Malfoy, on the other hand, seemed to be everywhere, gazing on Draco and his friends with a more transparent loathing than ever, pale and hateful, the lines of his face as hard as if they'd been carved from marble.

Blaise continued his opposition research, but things were moving on the Werewolf Rights Bill – Mr Weasley had already introduced the text of the bill to the Wizengamot and they had six weeks to reject or ratify. A letter from  _The Harry Potter_  had been enough to convince a surprising number to change their minds, though Hermione maintained that it was the unassailable logic contained therein and not Harry Potter's signature that had done the trick.

One day the little group met at Ron's sickbed to gauge their progress. Luna arrived with a note for Draco presaging another meeting with the Headmaster.

"How is the Junior Wizengamot getting on?" Draco inquired, smiling and pocketing the note.

Luna blinked at him longer than an ordinary person might, before replying; Draco had the sense that people didn't typically rely on Luna Lovegood for factual information. "Thirteen yeas," she replied succinctly. "With Saturn ascendant, we should continue being able to persuade people using letters," she tacked on, because she was Luna, after all. "But afterwards, with Mars ascendant, we'll need to put our best foot forward with some action."

Despite the astrology-guided assessment, she wasn't exactly wrong. Soon enough, those persuaded by rhetoric would be persuaded. Next came in-person visits, and after that, trading favours.

"Well. You can't expect everyone to change their minds so swiftly," Hermione countered. "Who's closest to flipping?"

Draco dug through the stack of return letters, organized by respondee. "Haverland, Jenkins, or Smith."

"Which Smith?" said Blaise, absently.

"Which Smith do you  _think_?" said Draco.

Blaise looked up. "Point taken. Okay, so Haverland has a granddaughter who's a Squib. Can we appeal to his sense of humanity?"

"Only works if he's got one," said Hermione. "I think he's waiting for Harry to offer him something."

"Like?" said Draco. "He's got all the influence he wants; he's on the Wizengamot."

"Uh," said Hermione. "He's got more than one granddaughter. I hear it's her dream to meet the Boy Who Lived."

"Done," said Draco, "so long as I don't have to kiss her hand. Next."

"The Minister wants you over for tea next week," said Luna, holding a new missive. She handed over the letter.

Draco skimmed it. "Marvelous."

"Don't you have a Quidditch match to head out for?" said Ron, looking amused.

"Quidditch? What's this  _Quidditch_  you speak of?" Draco grumbled. "I'm a full-time politician."

"Ha bloody ha," said Ron. "You lot go, I'll continue poring over this rubbish."

"Very well," Draco relented. "Or better yet, plan out what we intend to say to Albus Dumbledore when he returns from his latest mysterious journey – how we can convince him to help the Malfoys."

"I've been thinking about that," said Luna in her usual, dreamy way. "Tell him he has a choice: doing good for good's sake, or doing evil for good's sake. And that the second doesn't really work, you know – as a principle."

Draco turned to see Blaise looking down at Ron in bed, a complicated expression on his face.

"Go on," said Ron.

Draco left the Wing ahead of the others, feeling inexplicably as though he were intruding, only to run into none other than Draco Malfoy, clearly heading up to the Room of Requirement.

"Malfoy," he said.

"Potter," said the other boy.

"Killed anyone lately?" Draco said. "Or is it just this slew of pesky near-misses?"

Malfoy's lip curled, and he shrugged. "At least I'm making something of myself. Fighting for our cause, our Lord."

It was nothing Draco hadn't heard before – nothing he hadn't  _said_ before – and yet the words coming from his mouth, now… he felt gut-punched.

"Merlin's sky and  _stars_ ," said Malfoy. "I wonder how Mother and Father would feel to hear you've embraced all of Potter's proclivities. Do they know where you spent your Christmas? Where you've spent every evening since the Weasel was nearly  _killed_? Oh, I didn't mean it, don't worry… though I wasn't terribly sorry to hear it was the Weasel who got the worst of it, after all… but you  _were_ , weren't you?"

"He's my best friend," Draco said, half-afraid, half-defiant. "Since you've never had one, you wouldn't know what it's like."

Malfoy's expression wavered, the malice falling away to reveal pure exhaustion underneath. "Don't you have a game to play, or something? Whizzing about on brooms, ringing any bells? Go on, I won't solve it today."

"It'll be like that every day until it isn't," said Draco.

Malfoy stared. "It's like you're really  _him_ , you know," he said. "These past few months. I've been watching myself disappear by inches."

"It's not like that," Draco protested.

"I'm sure it doesn't feel that way," Malfoy said. "I'm sure you have justifications for how you've changed; if you hadn't, you'd go mad."

"And I'm sure you've justifications for why you haven't," Draco said, but he felt the same as he always did when he tried to talk to Malfoy: shaken to his foundations, a besieged city with gates a-tremble.

"Quidditch, Harry," said Malfoy. "Go on, go show off for the masses. You know you want to."

Draco half-turned, but there was a thought that had been at the edge of his mind for days now, and he could not quite resist turning and saying it over his shoulder.

"You deserve Azkaban for what you've done, you know," he said, and had the dubious pleasure of watching Malfoy's face sag before he turned again to face front, and to the Quidditch pitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoaaa sorry for the delay but things have been mad in my little world recently.
> 
> And for the few of you who've seen this coming from nearly day 1, cackling in the wings, HELLO U ARE MY PPL.
> 
> Now I know everyone's going to talk about the Blaise/Ron swerve, but I hope in your reviews you'll also discuss the Reappearance of Katie Bell, Draco's revelation at the start of the chapter, and his confrontation with his shadow self at the end. (Though I think our main character is actually the Shadow Self in the Jungian sense - the part of Draco that never, before now, saw the light of day.)
> 
> More soon!


	16. Chapter 16

Draco shored up his arguments that evening sitting before the fire after the match. He hadn't had very much luck convincing Dumbledore of anything in the past; the man seemed more intent on teaching him than on accepting help or advice. He tried out some of his arguments on Hermione, the most logical person he knew (a fact which still occasionally gave him cause to marvel), and when she proclaimed his reasoning sound, he declared himself ready.

The next evening, he made his way up to Dumbledore's offices with his heart in his throat.

"Come in, my boy," said Dumbledore, and Draco did, closing the door behind him. "Today, I thought we might talk about –"

"Sir, actually," said Draco, hands clasped behind his back. "Actually, I was wondering if I could ask you for a favour, first."

"A favour?" said Dumbledore. He gestured to the chair across from him, but Draco shook his head.

"Thank you sir, but pacing helps me think," he said, and then held bowstring-still and taut.

"Very well," said Dumbledore.

He took a breath. "So every time I've pointed out Malfoy is up to no good, you've fobbed me off."

"Harry," said Dumbledore chidingly. "We must give everyone –"

"A chance, fine," said Draco. He took another breath, reminding himself that no one responded well to being snapped at. "Very well," he said. "I agree."

Dumbledore's bushy brows raised. "You do?"

"I do," Draco confirmed, nodding. "No one should be forced to act under duress. Perhaps Malfoy began this year thinking his actions would earn him glory, but I've seen him grow more and more desperate, and I think you were wise to ensure you could still keep an eye on him. Like following Tom to Diagon Alley."

"Ah," said Dumbledore, stroking his beard. 

"It's unfortunate that it's nearly gotten a few students killed along the way," Draco added sharply. "But if we were to remove Damocles's sword, Malfoy might have no reason to carry on with what he's doing. The attacks might stop."

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, his eyes narrowing. "Go on."

"If you provided sanctuary to Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, for example," he said.

Dumbledore tilted his head.  "A most innovative proposition," he offered.

Draco pressed on, more animated now that he had a hint of encouragement from the older wizard. "If you were to relocate them someplace safe – someplace where He couldn't reach them – then Malfoy might feel safe enough to defy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's plans."

"Someplace like Grimmauld, perhaps?" Dumbledore suggested.

"Perhaps," said Draco, thinking,  _the old Black place_?

"Where  _is_  Grimmauld Place, again, Harry?" Dumbledore queried. "What is the number of the house?"

Draco didn't allow himself even a sharp intake of breath. "Sir?"

"The house number," Dumbledore repeated patiently. "It's under  _Fidelius_ , you see; so I was wondering if you were still capable of recalling it."

"I'm not sure I understand," said Draco, fingering the wand in his pocket; but what was he to do, attack one of the most powerful wizards of the Age?

 _That's what they wanted you to do,_ a little voice reminded him.  _That was the plan._

But facing Dumbledore, now, in his office, the Sorting Hat behind him, surrounded by all his objects of power... not to mention the puissance of the man before him... the suggestion that he could overcome Albus Dumbledore in his own school seemed more comical than ever.

"Surely you do!" Dumbledore said mildly. "I'm asking you a very simple question."

"Something must've gone wrong with the spell," Draco said with a frown, pulling on the Potter palimpsest with all his might. "I can't seem to say it aloud."

Dumbledore eyed him for a long moment.

Draco had no doubt that the old man's wand was in hand, and that it was oriented towards Draco under the desk. But he wouldn't spook; he  _refused_. Potter's stubborn fire igniting him, stiffening his spine with outrage, he tried again. "You can show that you're pro-Muggleborn without being anti-pureblood. You can make a powerful ally. And – most importantly – you can take the pressure off of Draco Malfoy, who seems to be doing his damnedest to kill you, whether you believe it or not! I'd like to know why a solution that you hadn't considered, a solution that fits like a skeleton key to a half dozen locks, makes you suspect me of something!"

Dumbledore leaned forward, hands still in his lap and out of sight. "I know Draco Malfoy is trying to kill me," he said quietly.

Draco couldn't prevent his shock from showing on his face, this time. "You… what?"

"I've known for some time," Dumbledore went on.

" _Sir_ ," said Draco.

"Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to know what's become of Harry," Dumbledore went on, and for the first time Draco caught a hint of feeling in his eye beyond his usual mild amusement. "You see, I'm rather fond of him."

"You're scaring me," said Draco.

"Is the young Mister Malfoy a rival of yours?" Dumbledore inquired. "You've been doing your best to get him out of the picture one way or another."

"Because he was  _hurting_  people," Draco protested. "Because he was endangering everyone – and you  _knew_ , you  _knew_?" He could hardly breathe through Potter's hurt and rage: the truth was sinking in, and it felt like a stab wound. "You let Katie lose her voice and spend  _months_  in the Hospital Wing, you let Ron be  _poisoned_  -!"

Dumbledore was eyeing him warily, now, confused... perhaps because he suddenly sounded like Potter again, Draco knew he did...

"And for what?" he demanded. "Because you have a death wish?"

Dumbledore set one hand atop his desk: the wizened, curse-blackened hand.

Draco let his gaze be drawn to it and realized that the blackness had climbed higher than he recalled... it was creeping up the elderly wizard's arm.

"I am dying anyway," Dumbledore said, plainly. "Would you deny an old man a swift death, the death of his choosing?"

"Death by teenager is a noble way to go?"

"It won't come to that," said Dumbledore, bushy eyebrows lowering.

"A swift death," said Draco. "But not from Malfoy? What, do you expect another Death Eater to…?" He paused, eyes widening. Potter's rage climbed again, an inferno licking at Draco's reason and threatening to subsume it.  He understood, suddenly and with another sense of sharpness, another stabbing pain.

"That isn't  _fair_ ," Draco said.

"It is not a matter of fair or unfair," Dumbledore rumbled. "Sometimes, in evil times, we must be strong enough to make hard decisions. When a good man weighs the fate of the world against his own sense of fair play, the world will always win."

 _A strange mix of Gryffindor and Slytherin premises_ , Draco thought dizzily, and had the strange sense that if he survived, he might someday be quite a lot like Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore thought himself noble and strong, honourable and brave, wise enough know his time had come. But in fact, Draco thought, he was taking the coward's way out. The  _easy_ way out.  

Luna had said there was no such thing as doing evil for good's sake. Dumbledore could not force someone to murder him and still be working towards good ends. And Draco could not be unifying, kind, loyal Harry Potter, only to give the world over to Voldemort when it dropped like a ripe fruit into his outstretched hand.

If he did, it would be as though he'd done evil all along.

"In the end, Snape must do it or die trying," said Dumbledore, "regardless of what I choose. We have been hemmed in from the start."

"The Unbreakable Vow," said Draco. It was his mother – of course it had been Narcissa. Who else would have gone to such great lengths – who already  _had_?

Only – she hadn't told Snape the rest of her plan. Snape had been conspicuously absent from the meeting in which the two Dracos had been revealed, and Draco had no reason to suspect that Snape knew his true identity. He'd certainly continued trying to help Malfoy as though it mattered, as though it were vital. His mother had plans within plans and schemes within schemes, and clearly, Snape was her backup.

Or Draco was her backup, and Snape killing Dumbledore was still Plan A.

"So get Mrs Malfoy to agree to rescind the Vow when you offer her succour," said Draco impatiently.

"Mister Potter has always been a clever young man," Dumbledore observed, "but he did not likely have all the information required to jump to such a conclusion."

"You still don't believe me," said Draco.

Dumbledore smiled gently. "What's your cousin's first name, Harry?"

Draco sighed.

"Mmm," said Dumbledore, and more placed his wand hand side-by-side with the blackened, wizened one atop his desk, wand oriented at Draco. "Whoever you are, you are to be imprisoned until you remove your geas from Mister Potter, or until your Polyjuice wears off. If neither come to pass," he said, "you might end up locked away for quite some time."

Draco licked his lips, considered his options, and dropped into a bow, as deep as he could hold. "Sir," he said. "I'm Draco Malfoy. Please,  _please_ , give my parents sanctuary. They don't want to serve Voldemort any more than you do."

Dumbledore said nothing for a bare instant. Then, " _are_  you," he said, slowly, as though tasting the words with his tongue. "Are you really?"

"I have no reason to lie. Not now." He kept his face oriented to the floor; the pose had begun to make him tremble, but he held, the Potter palimpsest's stubborn honour a vise holding him in place.

"And who, then, is the young man who's been delivering cursed necklaces and poisoned mead?"

"A Horcrux," Draco told the carpet. "That's how I heard of them first."

"The creation of a Horcrux requires that someone be murdered," said Dumbledore.

His voice had changed so drastically that Draco dared a look up. The old man's eyes were filling with tears.

"Oh," said Dumbledore, and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the corners of his eyes.

The Potter palimpsest drew his lungs in tight and suddenly Draco's own eyes were full. He looked down. "I'm sorry," he said, rising. "I had hoped you'd never know."

Dumbledore looked up sharply. "Never," he said.

Draco swallowed, but the game was up. "Yes."

Dumbledore fell silent again. It was clear from the way his eyes narrowed that he was thinking on the implications, sifting through them as Draco had at first. Eventually, he said, "who murdered Mister Potter?"

Draco shook his head. "I don't know." He wasn't about to incriminate his father when he wasn't sure.

"Did you know of this plan?" Dumbledore said. His voice was still quiet. To Draco's eye, he had always been an old man, but he had never seen the Headmaster look so stooped or wizened.

"I awoke as Harry one day and had to manage," Draco said. "I – I didn't know what was happening."

Dumbledore sank heavily into the seat behind the great, oaken desk again as though he weighed far more than before, and as gently as though he had become fragile to the touch. He gestured wearily at the seat across from him, and Draco sank, just as slowly – from wariness. "I will consider your request," he said, "on behalf of your family."

Draco blinked, then shook his head. "I –"

"I told you that Draco Malfoy was owed a chance to make up for his mistakes," Dumbledore said, in a sharper tone than Draco had yet heard him use. "No matter how you argued against me."

Draco's breath hitched.

"You will take Veritaserum and confirm all you have said and more," said Dumbledore.

"Yes, sir," Draco said, automatically, then paused. "No, sir. I'm an Occlumens."

Dumbledore pressed his thumb and forefinger to the sides of his crooked nose, as though he had a headache. "Of course you are," he said. "There is no manner of verifying the truth of your words."

Draco cast about for a way he could be believed, but there was nothing. He could prove he was Draco Malfoy, perhaps, with enough work; but proving he hadn't known anything about Harry's death before it happened… only Luna was trusting enough to take him at his word. Except…

"The Pensieve, sir," said Draco. "I'll – I'll show you the memory of when I first found out what had happened."

It was enough. It would have to be enough. Narcissa never outright claimed to have killed Harry Potter. His father had looked skeletal, beaten, enough to incite anyone's sympathy if there were any sympathy to be had.

"You showed me what an altered memory looks like," Draco said. "You know I can't hide from you, there."

"Very well," said Dumbledore. "Step forward."

Once the memory had been removed and set to wriggle around Dumbledore's Pensieve, Draco moved to stand before the magical vessel. After all, he had been dizzy with terror, baffled by circumstance, and quite literally concussed the first time around. Dumbledore eyed him, but after a moment he angled his body so that Draco could stand beside him. Together they peered into the Pensieve.

After the memory had played completely through, Dumbledore withdrew, his brow furrowed. Draco stood quietly, hands clasped behind him, awaiting the older man's response.

"Draco," he said, and Draco's chin jolted at the address – both correct, and familiar. "I will offer your parents aid."

Draco's lips parted in surprise, and he would have spoken, but Dumbledore raised his hand.

"On one condition," he said.

Draco felt his teeth grind. "You know I'd agree to anything," he said tightly.

"You must then keep the contents of this conversation between the two of us," Dumbledore said.

Draco stared. "I'm sorry?"

"For many reasons," said Dumbledore heavily. "Most immediately, the Werewolf Reform Bill would collapse if Harry Potter were to disappear, or prove untrue to the cause."

Draco made his way back to the small upholstered chair and thumped to sit down, feeling as though his bones had turned to lead.

"But in point of fact, my dear boy," he said, quietly, "the entire Wizarding World would be rather lost without its boy hero; do you understand?  _Without Harry_ , we are all lost…"

Draco blinked at him.

"Do you understand?" Dumbledore repeated, more firmly.

"Yes, sir," said Draco. "I should stay close to Ron and Hermione, alongside my new pureblooded friends. Cooperate with your people at the Ministry. Use what's left of Harry to guide me, to make my reactions believable in the eyes of his friends. Convert people to the right way of thinking where I can. Show worry and lack of faith in our cause to those I know I can't. And someday – in the near future – youngest Minister for Magic. With you as my silent advisor, Headmaster. Does that meet your expectations, sir?"

Dumbledore looked sorrowful. "I am not your newest Dark Lord, Mister Malfoy."

Draco ducked his head.

"You have it very nearly right. Though you'll have the details, now – the Order of the Phoenix, Mister Malfoy, is at Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Remember it well."

Draco could hardly believe his ears. "Y-yes. Sir."

"You may already know that Harry inherited the Black estate from Sirius; what you may not know is that the inheritance included a truculent House Elf named Kreacher. Harry's blood relations are the Dursleys – Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and his cousin, Dudley – who, it may be noted –"

"Is very large," said Draco, straightening in his chair, brow furrowing, trying to grasp the half-remembered feeling. "And terrible to him. Of course – the clothing is all hand-me-downs,  _dreadful_ , Potter hated it all so much…"

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and Draco looked up to find the old wizard looking at him strangely. "You…  _hear_ … Harry?"

Draco shook his head, not wanting to give the Headmaster false hope. "No. Nothing like that. Keep going."

Dumbledore gave him one, last unsettled nod before continuing. He told Draco things about Potter no one else knew – things about his parents, Lily and James; his godfather, Sirius; Remus Lupin; and all Harry's adventures throughout school. Sometimes, he stopped to bury his head in his hands, and Draco never said anything, just waited for him to gather himself before they could go on.

"The strangest, most awful thing is," said Dumbledore, then eyed Draco sharply. "Not that I have told anybody so, you see, because I was not sure, and it is a terrible, terrible thing to suspect – I feared Harry might be a Horcrux, himself. That Tom had, with the death of Harry's mother, inadvertently split his already-fragile soul again. That Harry might have to walk to his death, once all was said and done." Dumbledore gazed down at his clasped hands. "I was glad I shouldn't be there to see it," he added quietly.

Draco should have been weary; the sun was creeping up over the horizon line, bathing the inside of Dumbledore's office with a pale blue, new-minted glow. But he felt electrified, thrumming with energy as though someone had given him a bad Pepper-Up, and the news hit him hard.

He felt he suddenly knew why Dumbledore had chosen to take the coward's way out.

"I'll do my best, sir," said Draco suddenly.

Dumbledore's bushy lip quirked. "You have been, Mister Malfoy.  _Werewolf reform_. Carried out by a small group of devoted, idealistic youngsters…" His gaze narrowed on Draco. "Perhaps a meeting could be arranged with a select member of the press, you, and your Junior Wizengamot."

Draco shifted in his seat, unsettled; they'd only ever used that playful phrase amongst themselves. He'd have to keep a closer eye on the portraiture.

"Am I… free to go. Sir?"

Dumbledore's gaze grew sharper for a bare moment before it softened, and when he next spoke it was in a quiet, serious tone Draco had never heard from the Headmaster, before. "My boy, I have been dealt a blow, today. If I have been unfair to you at all, I beg your indulgence. I hope you will find me as capable a Slytherin mentor as Gryffindor."

Draco's unsettled state was such that for a long moment, he had no idea what Slytherin the man referred to. "You've been the soul of fairness," Draco huffed. "That's what worries me. What will you do about Malfoy?"

"Your callous response to him worries  _me_ ," said Dumbledore. "He is, after all, you – in some small fragment –"

"Yes, it's certainly the  _smallest_ part," Draco snapped, too tired and wrung out to be properly gracious anymore. "You heard my mother – he's a magical portrait, a flattened out version of me, incapable of change –"

"A lot was said at that meeting," Dumbledore said, "which only held a shade of truth. But, alas! There is no time to discuss it, now. The sun rises; a new day begins," he said. "A new day begins, and Harry Potter is dead." He smiled at Draco. "For me, it is the first of many days of mourning. Mourning that must be carried out in secret."

"Malfoy," said Draco, insistently.

Dumbledore smiled again, early morning light just rising to spill across the surface of his desk. "Very well. I will discuss the matter with his parents. Perhaps he, too, can go into hiding… but we shall call it 'suspended from school'."

It was a solution Draco hadn't considered. And something about his parents brought face-to-face with the son they disavowed so transparently was… poetic.

"Now, Mister… Potter," said Dumbledore, with insistent deliberation. "Perhaps you will allow an old man space to grieve."

"Good morning, sir," said Draco, and bowed.

"None of that," Dumbledore protested.

Draco rose from the bow. "They're all used to it, now."

"Mister Malfoy," said Dumbledore, when Draco would have turned to go. "They will all know, someday, you realize. Perhaps not everyone, but those who were closest to Harry – they will know."

Draco paused without turning, one hand on the door down the spiral stair. "Yes, I do know that," he said aloud, but he did and he didn't. He hoped Ron never figured out his best mate had been gone, and worse, that he hadn't realized. He never wanted Hermione to look back on all the clues she'd missed and wonder if she hadn't wanted the lie all along.

 

* * *

 

Draco returned to Hermione and Ron asleep in the Common Room, the fire down to embers in the hearth. Hermione was curled up on the loveseat, a throw tossed over her, hips to ankles; Draco tugged it down over her feet. Ron was sprawled inelegantly across the back of the couch, head tipped up, snoring lightly. Their shoulders were hunched in a bit. The House Elves might stoke the fires again in the morning, but as it was, the Gryffindor Common Room was distinctly chilled.

Draco had never kindled a fire himself, but he'd seen it done. He went to the grate and added a few wood shavings and small sticks before piling on larger bits. At first it seemed the flames would die down, but then they caught.

He pressed his hand to Hermione's shoulder and she turned, stirring. "Harry!"

"Shh, go back to sleep," Draco urged. "I only wanted to tell you I'm all right."

"Oh. Very well," she said muzzily, and closed her eyes.

Next he went to Ron, shaking his shoulder more roughly; he knew how challenging it was to wake the other boy once he was truly asleep.

But to his surprise, Ron leveraged himself up before Draco had the chance to dissuade him. " _Harry_ ," he grumbled. "I went looking for the Map so I could  _solemnly swear I was up to no good_ ," he said, "but I couldn't find it. Next time, send a Patronus, would you?"

Draco's breath caught, resting his hand over the robe pocket that held the Map, feeling the rough outline of it with the palm of his hand. "Uh, yeah. Sure," he agreed. "I promise. Go back to sleep."

Ron growled at him, wordless, like a hibernating bear, but flopped back down, squirmed a bit, and resumed snoring almost immediately.

Draco crept upstairs to the boys' dormitory door and whispered, " _I solemnly swear I am up to no good_?"

 _Congratulations on behalf of Mssrs Mooney, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs on being Slytherin enough_ , the Map read, and suddenly, all of Hogwarts was laid out before him.

But of course, it wasn't that Draco had been Slytherin enough, he thought as he collapsed into bed, fully clothed. Ron had given him the answer without needing to be asked, as freely and as thoughtlessly as he had given him everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh I do like this chapter. I tend to read these aloud, and this one and the last one both prompted ?!?!!? followed by !!!! from the audience, which is my favorite kind of reaction.


	17. Chapter 17

Draco Malfoy woke with a start.

Early spring light shifted across the deep velvet curtains, making the inside of his cosy cocoon pulse like a heart. Around him, he could hear the unmistakable shuffles and scratches and rustling of papers that meant the Gryffindors around him were getting ready to trundle off to breakfast.

"Harry – oi, Harry – you awake?" carolled a familiar voice.

But then Neville added, "c'mon, Ron, give 'im time. He came in awfully late..."

A few more minutes and the room around Draco was silent. It was only then that he sat up and cautiously peered out. On meeting no one, he fumbled for his glasses and settled them on his face.

Potter had pianist's hands, Draco thought, turning them over: long-fingered, capable, strong.

He dropped his head into them.

"Harry?"

Draco jerked upward to find Ron standing in the doorway.

On seeing Draco's posture, Ron closed the door quickly behind him. "Are you all right?"

It had stopped being a shock long ago, that such an intent interest could form on Ronald Weasley's face, but it still hit Draco as strange, somehow, that it was pointed at him.

"I should be asking you that," Draco said heartily. "Out of the Hospital Wing, finally, and then waiting up for me all evening…"

Ron sighed and, instead of going with the fiction as he had the very first time they'd met, shook his head. "Come now, Potter," he said, ruffling Draco's hair. "Here I thought we were all past that." His face fell. "Dumbledore didn't go for it?"

Draco jolted, staring.

"Sanctuary to Malfoy's parents. Dumbledore didn't go for it? Merlin, Harry – your  _face._ "

Draco collected himself as swiftly as he could, cursing himself roundly for the lapse. "Dumbledore said he'd offer the Malfoys sanctuary, and that he'd expel Malfoy but send him to live with them, wherever they are. He even said he'd connect us to some reporters who might tell a sympathetic story about werewolf reform."

Ron took in this new information, but he didn't look distracted from his friend's distress. He paused, scratched his nose, nodded to himself, and pressed on – once more into the breach. "You just tell me whatever's bothering you and we'll figure it out."

Draco huffed a laugh. But much as he wished he could tell someone, there was no way he could explain the problem to Ron. He wasn't sure he could explain the problem to  _himself._

After all, he was successfully fooling everybody. And now, with Dumbledore on his side, helping him maintain the illusion… it was starting to seem like he was in the clear… like he could really stay Harry indefinitely…

Take his NEWTS as Harry Potter. Graduate as Harry Potter. Get married, have his first  _child_  as –

"Whoa," Ron said, thumping him on the back. "Breathe, mate,  _breathe_ …" He rubbed his hand in circles on Draco's back and eventually Draco settled back into himself, recalibrating enough to feel embarrassed, a little. "Come on, now. You remember? You swore."

Draco searched his memory and came up blank.

"You said that you,  _Harry James Potter,_ would come to me in times of trial." He smiled. "Looks like trial to me."

"Ron, why are we friends?" Draco said. When Ron's expression registered a flash of shock, then hurt, he blundered on. "I mean, if I… weren't the Boy Who Lived, if… I'd been Sorted to Slytherin, if… I hadn't come from the right sort of family…"

Ron's brows lowered over his dark blue eyes. "First of all, the scar is wicked, and I maintain that wicked scars are a good conversation piece, especially curse scars," Ron announced. "I'm not sorry that I brought it up the first time we met." He grinned. "But I wasn't your friend for all that; it was that you bought me chocolate frogs, and told off Malfoy."

The warm smile forming on Draco's lips fell away bit at a time. "Oh," he said.

"And Slytherin. I guess…" Ron's brow furrowed again, then cleared, the tips of his ears turning pink. "Who cares, right? Blaise is sneaky and ambitious, but…"

"But you like him," Draco prompted.

Ron shrugged. "I guess Slytherin feels a little different when it's on your side," he admitted. "Pansy's wicked funny, and Millie couldn't hurt a fly. It's not like every Slytherin is Malfoy," he added, a little defensively.

"Right," said Draco. "Ta for that."

"And what does family have to do with it? If anything, I think you're all the more impressive for managing to come from the Dursleys with your head screwed on  _mostly_ straight," Ron said, jostling him with his shoulder.

"What, nothing about Malfoy's family?" Draco grumbled, thinking back to Ron's previous answers.

Ron's gaze went faraway until he made the connection, and then he laughed. "The guy tried to kill me, I'm allowed a little fixation. Besides, who are you to talk?"

 _Who am I to talk_ , Draco thought, then tried to shake himself free of the maudlin mood.

He'd pictured it again and again, since he first arrived here, the Potter palimpsest nudging him from behind: telling Ron and Hermione everything.

With each iteration, the scenarios grew more and more elaborate... Draco rescuing one of them from certain death (an unfortunately likely scenario, if Potter's life to now was anything to go by) and announcing it was Draco Malfoy who'd done it... the spell failing suddenly – inexplicably – to reveal him mid-heroic deed, leaving no possibility of doubt in his identity (or sincerity).

But if this conversation had shown him anything, it was that Draco Malfoy was Ron's  _definition_ of a terrible person. Nothing he could ever do would counter that.

Picturing the way Ron's features would shift from warmth to coldness, from affection to hatred, made him sick.

"Anyway," said Ron, blissfully unaware, "I feel like we're better friends than ever, this year. Don't you?"

Draco had no idea what to say, or even to think.

"I just don't think we could've had this conversation last year," Ron went on. "Back then, things got worse and worse for you and you'd clam up tighter and tighter, and I just had to watch. Hermione says that's how you must've dealt with it all at home. Outright defiance – or don't say a word, if it's not worth trying on."

Draco swallowed but nodded to show he'd been listening, gaze trained on the floor. He suddenly understood Blaise's  _you're just so good…_  He might not want to stick his tongue down Ron's throat, but he did suddenly want to kiss him on the crown of his head.

What the hell – he reached out and did it.

Ron looked puzzled for an instant but then his face broke into a grin, and he ruffled Draco's hair.

Draco cleared his throat. "So, speaking of secrets. You and Blaise –"

Ron's jaw dropped.

"Are you dating now, or what?"

Ron turned the colour of a tomato and sputtered.

"Come now, Ron," Draco said, unable to stop a grin breaking out on his own face. "I thought we were in the spirit of sharing."

Weasley looked up from below his fringe warily. "You're not… angry?"

"Angry?" Draco's brow raised. "Angry at what?"

"I thought," said Ron. "I mean, I thought maybe – you'd tell me I was a nutter for even spending more time around him. I was waiting on it. And when he went after Hermione, and she liked him, I was jealous – of  _course_ , I was jealous – but that meant I was thinking things about how cool he always is, and how dark his eyes are, and how he's so patient that it's sort of calming to be around him, and no wonder Hermione likes him so much, and what sort of chance do  _I_ have, and so it was kind of a trick..."

"A trick," Draco repeated gamely.

"To get me to pay attention to all his good qualities," Ron said.

"I see," said Draco.

"You're making fun of me," said Ron.

"I'm not."

"You are; I see it on your face."

"No," Draco said. "I fully understand what it's like to grow to like someone against your will, that's all. I wish you all the happiness in the world in your threesome or thriple or whatever."

"What?" squalked Ron. "My –  _triple –_ what?"

"I'm happy for you, Ron."

"I – you are? You  _are_ ," said Ron, wonderingly. He retreated swiftly, though, brow furrowed again. "Are you  _sure_?"

"Rather," said Draco, frowning. "And if you continue to behave in such a startled manner, I'm going to start to take offence."

A grin broke out over Ron's face, and his eyes went a little shiny. "Okay," he said. He frowned. "You don't think any less of Hermione for it?"

"I think all the more of Hermione for it," said Draco. "She'd be hard-pressed to do better than you and Blaise." It also fitted well with his image of Hermione Granger and her knack for thwarting all the unspoken rules of polite pureblooded society. He felt a little gleeful about the rage of witches everywhere when they learned that Hermione was dating two pureblooded boys at once.

"You don't feel – left out?" said Ron.

Draco put both hands up. "I'm not interested."

Ron ducked his head to laugh. "I  _mean_ , you plonker, your two best friends in a relationship!"

" _Ron_ ," said Draco, intently. "I. Am. Happy. For  _you_."

Ron looked sly. "And after all, you have Luna."

"I – what?" Draco stammered. "We don't –  _have_  one another –"

"I just mean you'll have someone to naff about with, if we're on a date," Ron said. Then, innocently, "what did you think I meant?"

"Ha," said Draco.

"Were you really worried about why we were friends?" Ron said after a beat of silence.

Draco looked up into his face. "Kind of," he said.

Ron looked helpless first, then fierce. "No one's going to take me or Hermione away from you. Not without the fight of their lives."

Draco rubbed at his breastbone absently. "Thanks, Ron."

Ron placed the flat of his hand atop Draco's head and gazed at him intently. "Kicking and screaming, mate. You hear me?"

Draco had to laugh a little, because the vision of Hermione and Ron being dragged away from him kicking and screaming was both a little comical and a little on-the-nose.

 

* * *

 

At lunch that day, an unfamiliar owl dropped a letter in Draco's lap. He trained his gaze on it to try and get a better look, but it was already too far away for him to even guess the species. He cracked the seal and read in his father's handwriting:

_Tonight. Midnight. Edge of the Forbidden Forest._

The letter quite literally disappeared in his hands,  _sans_  pop or smoke or anything to show it had been there at all. Draco was tempted to believe he'd imagined it, but the sinking in his gut belied it.

"What are the Malfoys  _playing_ at?" Ron growled, shaking a copy of the  _Prophet_ in the air before passing it off to Hermione. "Lucius Malfoy's meant to be in prison, last I checked!"

Hermione passed the  _Daily Prophet_  off to Draco, but not before casting a hasty privacy spell around their little group. "Been pardoned," she said, succinctly. "Front page news. Apparently, it's all been a dreadful misunderstanding." She shivered.

Ron let out a shout of frustration that was so physical that even soundless, it attracted half the table's attention.

"Malfoy's thinking to rehabilitate his reputation, I should think," said Blaise. "It was the same after the last war – donations to all the right causes. Sometimes I think they chose to have Draco right then in order to complete the picture of a young, doting couple."

"That or for a blood sacrifice," said Luna solemnly. "I've often thought so."

"If I were the Malfoys," said Blaise, "I'd be selling off family antiques, just to pay to grease the right wheels. Which makes it all the more impressive that our Werewolf Initiative made the grade."

Draco feverishly skimmed the  _Prophet_  to find that it was  _true:_  not only was his father out of Azkaban, but he'd chosen to leap back into public life by supporting  _Harry Potter's Werewolf Initiative_  – and so he named it.

"Yes, yes, it's all very  _impressive_ ," said Hermione. "But the Malfoys are living with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, little though that's  _public_ knowledge. Supporting Harry now must tantamount to suicide."

"Unless he  _knows_  about the Malfoys supporting Harry," Ron said. "Implies it's all part of his plan, doesn't it?"

"Maybe He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named means for the Malfoys to pull their support at the last possible moment," Blaise mused. "Make a fool out of Potter, show him how the grown-ups play."

"Sounds like something a Slytherin would do," said Ron.

Blaise sighed, put-upon, but Ron said, shoving him in the shoulder, "Merlin's sake, not  _you_. Some other Slytherin – who's not on our  _side_."

Blaise looked up, wary, but Ron found this such an ordinary observation that he was already looking to Draco for their next move.

"So we're grateful for the support," Draco contributed, slowly, "but we keep pushing with everyone else. We'll say we want to sweep the Wizengamot. We'll ensure there's a strong showing even if there are those who back out at the last moment, and shame the ones who do."

"Not having the courage of their convictions," said Hermione. "Cowards to the end."

"Precisely," said Ron.

"But what about Malfoy?" Luna wondered. "The younger, that is."

The little group immediately sobered.

"Perhaps we can convince Draco to take the amnesty on his own?" said Hermione.

The others groaned.

"If Malfoy thinks his family's at stake, he won't pick up and leave," Ron said. "What?" he added, when Blaise stared. "It's true."

"I suppose Ron's right," said Blaise. "For Malfoy, it's family honour first and foremost. You might even say that, beyond his parents and himself, Malfoy doesn't care for much of anything else."

"We're not going to get any further on the Malfoy problem just now," said Hermione, "and you still haven't told us why you were with Dumbledore so long last evening. What happened?"

"It took me that long to convince him about the Malfoys," Draco said. "Though it appears they did not accept his offer of amnesty." He reached out and rubbed at his breastbone, absently. "Then there's the Horcruxes," he added. "What Dumbledore has been telling me in all these meetings of his."

"I've come up with some of the basics," Hermione chimed in. "They can be destroyed by basilisk venom, at least."

"Why destroy them?" said Luna. "Why not send the bits of his soul back to him?"

"Luna, that's sweet," Hermione said, "but there's nothing in  _any_  of the books about that…"

Luna shrugged, but she didn't meet Draco's eye. Instead, she skipped off back to the Ravenclaw table.

"Well, we've lost a co-conspirator, just like that," Blaise said mildly. "Anyway, how much does an ounce of Basilisk venom go for these days?"

Hermione named a figure and Draco thought it exorbitant; Ron issued a low whistle. "Er, there must be some other way," Hermione said. Voice firming, she added, "I'll keep on looking."

 

* * *

 

That night, Draco pretended to go to bed early, but in reality, he had a full set of travelling clothes hidden behind the bedcurtains and changed into them straightaway, then lay in the dark with his Invisibility Cloak a liquid pool beside him and the Map stuck on top.

Part of him was excited, vibrating at the possibility of seeing his father again. That same part wondered if the ache behind his breastbone would finally settle once he clapped eyes on the other man, as though the very sight of him would ease his guilt and lay his doubts and fears to rest – like magic.

The rest of him was worried, wondering what dreadful thing had come to pass such that his father needed to see him  _in person._

When the time came to leave, Draco pushed the curtains back with trembling fingers, expecting one of the other boys to rise at any moment, to point an accusing finger... but all he heard was soft snoring, and what sounded like Longbottom muttering in his sleep.

Draco shoved his feet into Harry's dirtied trainers and crept to the door, running his wand along the wards, reinforcing them absently before slipping out the door to the Common Room and then out the Fat Lady's portrait, down the hall and down the shifting stair until he reached the exit astride the Great Hall.

The March night was cold, the stars sharp pin-pricks in a blackened, moonless sky. He drew the Invisibility Cloak tight around his shoulders and crept forward. But with every step he took, he drew his shoulders back a further inch until some of his old swagger returned to his step. He would face his father as a Malfoy, he determined.

Bit at a time, the starlight cast a glow on a lone figure at the Forest's edge. Draco drew the Cloak from his shoulders only once he was certain the man was his father, and bowed.

"Draco," he said.

He looked a bit better, Draco saw: his cheeks not so grey or sunken, his eyes not so dull. His hair and his cloak lay well.

"Father," he said.

"Strange, to hear you say it," said Lucius, with a familiar quirk of his lip.

"Mister Malfoy, then," said Draco, clasping his hands behind the small of his back as he often did in his father's presence when listening to important information. "Good to see you, sir."

"And you," Lucius returned, and the spark of warmth in his eye made Draco duck his head to hide his smile. "I have been wondering how you have been getting on as Harry Potter." He tilted his head, sweeping Draco with his gaze. "It suits you."

Draco, wide-eyed, wasn't sure whether to take it as a compliment. Nonetheless, he said, "thank you, sir."

"Initially, we did worry that you might have come in arrogant, abandoned Weasley and Granger without a second thought, broadcast your thoughts on Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers and Dark Magic," Lucius said. "Espoused ideas your peers might find distasteful, if not… properly educated. That was why it was argued we not tell you about the switch beforehand, you see. And I must say that it did the job: uncertainty meant you played along just long enough for the fragment of Potter's soul to settle in and do its work." He raised a brow, circling towards Draco, hands clasped loosely behind his back. "And what a job it has done."

"I don't understand," Draco said faintly, swivelling on the spot to keep his father in his sight. Swallowing, he felt his fingers tremble, then shift, inch-by-inch, to rest lightly against his (Potter's) wand.

"You don't," said Lucius with another of his infamous half-smiles. "Of course you don't." He paused. "Allow me to explain."

Draco nodded, but his fingers wouldn't move from his wand. He  _couldn't make them_. This was his father, but also somehow his enemy, and though his fingers twitched at his sternest order, they remained just as close to the handle of his weapon as ever.

"You've done well. The Werewolf Initiative; a small cadre of trusted students from Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor; not to mention resurrecting Dumbledore's Army," Lucius said, with a twist of his lip. "Some might say you've done a bit too well, in fact... but some are short-sighted madwomen with a penchant for dramatics."

Draco allowed himself the luxury of a smile.

"Which makes this all the more effective a gesture," Lucius said, and a shriek like the scream of a banshee ripped through the night.

Draco cast about wildly, wand drawn, and lifted his head to see a poison-green skull blossom into the air over Hogwarts. He whirled to face his father, just in time to catch the expression that broke across his face at the sight:

Rapt. Devoted. Delighted.

"What is this, Father?" Draco heard himself say. His voice sounded muffled to his own ear, as though he were shouting underwater.

"We've decided to end old Dumbledore after all," said Lucius, casually.

Draco was taking off in a run before he understood what he was about; he wrapped the Cloak about his shoulders as he ran, faster than he ever had before.

"Hurry!" Lucius shouted after him. "Hurry, or you'll miss it!"

Draco flew through the Castle doors, panting on the stair when he realized he had no idea where Dumbledore was. He scrambled through the "I solemnly swear I am up to no good!" and scanned the Map.  _Oh, Merlin's sky and stars!_  – he was up in the Astronomy Tower, far beyond Draco's reach –

_The coin. Call the DA!_

Draco fumbled in his trouser pocket and withdrew it. Surely no one was awake, but he might as well try… he Charmed it to read  _Astronomy Tower! NOW!_

He threw himself up the stairs, and they shifted… he cursed until he was blue in the face… didn't dare let himself wonder who was awake to heed the call…

He emerged onto the Astronomy Tower stair so winded that he was dizzy, that Potter constitution sparking his vision. He stumbled upward, feeling as though he were shoved from behind… but what else could he do but keep moving? Potter's bravery, his heart, his blood, it all yanked him forward.

 _Come on, Potter,_ he thought nonsensically, gripping the edge of the stone entryway with whitened fingers.  _Don't fail me now..._

A hand landed on his forearm, and Draco whipped around, but it was Luna's terror-white features that met his. She glanced up at the sky and shuddered, and then she flew forward and for one, vital moment, all they did was cling together, silent. But then the Potter palimpsest yanked, and they lurched forward together, out under the blackness of the night and the cool light of the stars.

"…thought you were safe," came a voice – and it was Fenrir, wand pointed at Dumbledore, who stood against the parapet, face as calm as someone invited to tea.

"Mister Greyback," he said. "It's been some time, hasn't it?"

"Shut it, old man," Fenrir's voice sounded. "This is hardly the time for pleasantries. Or did you want to offer us a lemon drop?"

Cho, Micheal Corner, and the youngest Slytherin all clambered up the final step to the door to join them; Luna reached immediately for the blonde girl's hand and squeezed. They nodded and drew their wands and stood at Draco's back in formation.

Draco scanned the rest of the Tower; besides Fenrir, there were four other Death Eaters, none of whom faced the door. Arrogance, Draco supposed. Theoretically, it was possible for the students to get the drop on them… but he didn't like their odds. If it had been Blaise or Hermione at his back, or Ginny, who was notably fast on the draw, he might've felt differently. Apparently, their fastest runners were not their best duellers… but when Pansy arrived on the step, breathless, he knew it was now or never.

He gestured to Luna and to Fenrir. He gestured to himself for Fenrir as well, then assigned each of the others a single target. Then, with his hand shifted down, he reminded them to go low the moment they'd fired off their first shot. Everyone nodded, and Draco turned again to face front.

 _Oh Merlin. Oh Merlin. Oh Merlin,_ he thought on helpless repeat, and watched as though from outside as his hand raised into the air, all the D.A.'s eyes on its whiteness cutting through the dark...

His wrist swung and his hand dropped and they darted ahead, silent as they'd arrived, and fired off... Draco heard  _Expelliarmus_ ,  _Confundus_ , and one clever  _Lumos,_ blinding their enemies, who'd grown used to the dim light on the rooftop.

" _Imperio!_ " Fenrir cast in turn; Luna batted it away absently, and Draco's heart swelled with pride. Meanwhile, he could see yet more of the DA arriving and bursting through the door to finish off the remaining Death Eaters; but Fenrir was still on his feet.

" _Imperio!_ " Pansy cast, and Fenrir stopped in his tracks, expression condescending; but Pansy had only meant to stall him, and managed to hit him with a quick  _Stupefy!_  right after.

Fenrir growled, shaking off the spell but on the retreat as the D.A. encircled him, wands out; Draco now counted at least twelve of them, and Dumbledore, besides, face like a thundercloud. But then, a vicious grin broke out across Fenrir's features. "Aren't you kiddies late for bed?" he inquired. "Too sleepy to notice no Gryffindors came when you called, eh, Potter?"

Draco was shocked enough to glance about, backing away with his wand high so as to see the whole group at once:

No Lavender. No Ginny. No Dean, no Seamus. No Neville.

No Hermione.

No Ron.

"It's a diversion," Draco realized. "It's a diversion! To Gryffindor Tower!  _Now!_ "

They darted as one for the door, Greyback leaping off the Tower to a lower parapet and out of sight. Draco caught out of the corner of his eye that Dumbledore was casting as they ran; casting what he could not be sure, but miraculously none of the students slipped off the stairs, which were now spinning in something like panic. Once, Luna stumbled, but she was scooped to her feet by Millie and Pansy before Draco could even reach her.

They ran.

There was a bottleneck at the entry to the Tower; Draco ducked and a curse flew over his head. "STAY LOW!" he shouted over the noise of the Castle's destruction.

Luna's hand slipped into his and squeezed. He returned the pressure and they charged forward…

Cho's face was grim as she fired off Stunner after Stunner. A few found their mark, but soon the Death Eaters rounded on them, and the battle began in earnest. A fragment of Draco's attention took in McGonagall flying around the corner, taking a Stunner and  _shaking it off_ like Fenrir, then firing back, but he mostly devoted his attention to pressing forward, Potter's blood singing in his veins, picturing worse and worse fates for the Gryffindors inside. It made him more vicious than was his wont, eyes narrowing with deadly focus. He paid no mind to who fell before his wand until he stood with his back to the Fat Lady's portrait, Pansy on his left side and Luna on his right; and then the painting opened behind them and shut so fast that they were left to tumble on the other side, sounds of battle suddenly muted, faraway.

" _Accio wands!_ "

Draco felt his wand slip from his questing fingers, found a very familiar wand pointed in his face. He followed the arm up to his own features: his own smirk set in his own face.


	18. Chapter 18

 

Despite the battle raging outside, Draco could hear none of it: the room must have been soundproofed, magically or otherwise. The sudden silence fell like the blade of a guillotine.

"Surprised?" said Malfoy. "You shouldn't be." He gestured to the wall, and Draco backed up until he was pressed against the familiar russet wallpaper of the Gryffindor Common Room. They stood before a ring of men in masks, and the naked-faced Bellatrix Lestrange, looking bored - though Draco just how swiftly her calm could splinter.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow when he saw who else had fallen through the portrait. "Et tu, Pansy?"

She blinked at all the Death Eaters around them, and Draco wondered if she were trying to place one of them, look for an ally. "Draco," she said. "What's going on?" She eyed Lestrange nervously.

"Why, we're killing off Potter's friends," said Malfoy conversationally. "But not because we  _want_  to," he said, adopting an expression of false concern. "It's nothing personal, you know: it's for dramatic impact."

 _Killing._ Killing meant they hadn't  _done it yet._

"Draco," said Pansy again. "Don't you think that seems… er,  _unnecessary_? There's plenty of  _impact_  outside already, wouldn't you agree?"

" _Stupefy_ ," Malfoy intoned, and Pansy crumpled. "She's so irritating sometimes," he added to Draco, as though he thought Draco might sympathize. "No? Well, not to you perhaps. But then, she never cared about me." His voice grew low. "No one does."

"Sure, Malfoy," Draco said. "That's deep. It explains everything."

Suddenly, Malfoy was far closer than he'd been, wand tucked up under Draco's chin. "Oh, do you really  _think_  this is enjoyable?" Malfoy hissed up-close. "Do you still not get it? Are you still not following along?"

He jerked his head behind him, back toward the dormitories, and the Death Eater closest to him shook his head and shrugged. "Sorry, Draco, the dormitories are still warded," came a dull voice that Draco recognized as Crabbe Senior's.

"Well,  _un_ -ward them, or is that beyond you?  _Lestrange, supervise!_ " Malfoy snapped, without turning his attention away from Draco. "You see, we're the same person – but I play the villain, while you get to play the hero. I still haven't decided which of us got the shorter end of the stick…"

"You really have lost your mind," said Draco, heart thundering in his chest.

Malfoy's face contorted to something that looked a lot like pity. "Father said you'd be as susceptible as Potter to swallowing it all, but I didn't believe him at first. I thought at some point you'd come to me and give me the 'we aren't so different, you and I' speech, and I'd tell you everything –"

"I  _did –_ "

"No, you offered to  _help me_ ," Malfoy spat. "A measly fragment of his soul and still, you're just like him… and what does that make  _me_? No – no. Don't answer that," he said.

"We can't get through, boss," said Crabbe again.

" _Assist him, would you_?" Malfoy hissed, and a few of the others broke off to examine the wards they'd placed around the girls' and boys' dormitories; at Malfoy's direction, a few split off from the rest to stay close to Draco and his friends.

"We're going to kill Weasley or Granger, or maybe both," Malfoy said in a low voice, right up against Draco's ear. "I haven't decided, yet. Harry Potter will mourn and the country will mourn with him… and it will make him  _more popular than ever._  The crisis at Hogwarts will be a turning point for a righteous, just war against the Death Eaters. The Ministry will support you. The Malfoys, already leaning towards Potter, will embrace him utterly, and a golden age for Wizardkind will begin… a golden age in which Harry Potter supports our every political initiative. I'll say I was under the Imperius Curse… after all, I was never invited to a certain secret little group who were taught to throw it off…" He drew back just enough to take in Draco's face. "It's been a horrible year," he said, eyes filling with sudden tears. "I haven't been able to break free of it… I kept trying and  _trying_ … if  _only_  Potter had let me into the Defense Association…" He shook his head tearfully. "But there's no point, now, in what-ifs," he finished, sniffling bravely. "What matters is what we do next… together." He blinked the tears away, and grinned. "Well? What do you think? I've been practising my acting all year."

"Got it, boss!"

Draco swallowed, eyes closed. Weeks of research and hours of ward-work and it had bought them a few extra minutes.

"Hang on, I'll re-set the wards, once they're out," Malfoy said, and turned to the stair; but Luna came to stand beside him the moment Malfoy backed off, slipping her warm hand into Draco's. Malfoy watched her with the sort of confusion Draco normally displayed when faced with Advanced Arithmancy. "Hullo, Draco."

"Uh, hi?" said Malfoy, then frowned.

Draco empathized.

Malfoy shook off Luna's gaze and did something complicated to the wards; then sounds of a scuffle emerged from the boys' dormitories. "Ah!" Malfoy said, pressing the tip of his wand into Draco's throat again. "Easy, Potter…"

The Death Eaters tossed a struggling Ron down at Malfoy's feet.

"Careful there, Weasel," Malfoy spat, "or your friend might end up with an unfortunate hole in his neck."

Ron's gaze dashed wildly over to Draco, who shook his head  _no_. There was nothing, yet, to be done – no opening to exploit.

There was a rough laugh and a scream, and Hermione and Blaise were emerging from the girls' dorm.

"Look what I found!" Bellatrix laughed. "Little Mudblooded whore, polluting our boys with her filth."

Hermione went white, but it was as though someone had lit a fire under Blaise… he hissed and kicked and spat until Bellatrix gave him a very Muggle knock to the back of the head for his trouble.

Hermione screamed.

"Maybe we should teach this bitch her place," one of the Death Eaters suggested.

"Stop jabbering on and bring them both here," Malfoy said in a bored voice. "We aren't here to play around."

Bellatrix tossed Hermione down, but Ron managed to break her fall; they dumped Blaise; he rolled over and threw up on the carpet.

"It's a concussion!" Hermione squeaked. "He's a pureblood… you should at least heal  _him_!"

"You think that's how this works, Granger?" Malfoy wondered. "You think pure blood matters at all to this lot? Merlin's sky and stars, you're every bit as naïve as I always thought."

Ron's gaze darted from Malfoy to Draco.

"It's all right," said Luna. "It's going to be all right, everyone. Draco wouldn't kill anyone, not really."

"I'm afraid you're misinformed, Looney," said Malfoy, conversationally. "I killed Potter, for one."

Luna blinked a few times into the silence that followed. Then – from one moment to the next – she was screeching at Malfoy, her hands stiffened into claws… she raked his face from one side to the other, drawing blood, before he was able to bat her away… when she landed, she was sobbing bitterly; she didn't stand again, curling into herself.

"You didn't," said Draco, numbly.

"Damn right he didn't," said Ron. "You're standing right there!"

"Well, I suppose since you're going to die, it doesn't really matter if you know," Malfoy said, but with altogether too much delight in his voice: he wanted to see what Ron and Hermione made of the truth. "Potter died last September, swift as a thought. Went the way of his parents with the Killing Curse. The Dark Lord couldn't do it… their wands are twins… so I was chosen for the honour."

"Malfoy," Hermione said, gazing about at all the Death Eaters ringing the room and lowering her voice. "Harry isn't dead. Harry is alive. Do you understand? You haven't done anything irretrievable, not yet. He's standing right here."

"She's sweet," Malfoy opined to Draco. "I see the charm, I think. Well, of course I do, if  _you_  do. Is it true what they say about Mudbloods? I did always wonder."

A few of the watching Death Eaters chortled appreciatively, leering.

"Shut it, Malfoy!" Ron growled. "You've lost your mind, we get it."

"The Dark Lord has been replacing important people all across Britain," Malfoy said meditatively. "What made you think he wouldn't replace Potter? I tell you, he's dead. You've been hanging around a corpse. He just hasn't started to stink, yet."

Ron and Hermione looked horrified, and Blaise, still concussed, groaned wordlessly, but none of them were looking at Draco at all.

He'd done such a good job of fooling them.

"You know, on second thought, I think we've got to prove it. Don't you?" Malfoy inquired, brows raised. "Lovegood, come here."

Luna shook her head, cheeks wet.

"Luna, come here,  _now_ ," Malfoy barked. "Now, or I'll curse your friends and I won't stop cursing until they're quivering piles of flesh. I'm not going to stop until they're begging me to end their stupid, worthless little lives, do you understand? I used the necklace and I used the poison and I'm certainly not afraid to use my wand!"

"It  _was_  you with the –" Hermione began, and then, Malfoy backhanded her.

There was something about seeing anyone – but particularly seeing  _himself_  – hit Hermione that loosened all Draco's care for his own life. With a growl more like an animal's than a person's, he flew at Malfoy, knocking them both to the floor – but he had barely begun to pummel Malfoy when he realized that the other boy was fumbling at Draco's pockets and then –

The Invisibility Cloak swung over them both, and Malfoy rolled them off to the side so that they were ensconced too tightly together for Draco to thrash. There was a hasty silencing spell that sounded in Draco's ear, and suddenly they were out of the way…

"You idiot," Malfoy was saying into his ear. "You fucking  _moron_ , you really think I like this? You realize that means you think  _you_  like it. Do you hate yourself that much?"

Draco was too gobsmacked, too adrenaline-infused, too dizzied with the rolling Malfoy had led, to formulate an answer. He blinked down into his own features, so close. He could hear people outside the Cloak panicking, but soon enough they'd realize what had happened, and –

"You honestly do think you're the villain, don't you? Luckily, this won't take long," Malfoy growled, and slapped a small stone into the centre of Draco's palm. "You think I spent that whole time on the Cabinet? When my parents' lives weren't even at stake anymore?"

A warmth was spreading from Draco's palm and up his arm; he tried to shift the stone off of his palm, but he and Malfoy were wrapped too tightly together. "What -?"

"You'll figure it all out soon enough," Malfoy said, suddenly weary. "I'm going to regret every moment of this, aren't I? Fuck. Fuck," he whispered, eyes pressed shut; and just as suddenly, his voice was full of tears.

Draco tried to speak, tried to swallow, tried to protest, but he couldn't move… he could barely think…  _he's poisoned me after all…_

And then…

_Then._

Malfoy had been assigned to kill Dumbledore, but at the split, Lucius kept Malfoy back and explained that plans had changed… that Malfoy was to try and kill Harry's friends, instead. The necklace, the mead – they weren't mistakes at aiming for Dumbledore, they were designed to show everyone that Harry's friends were in danger… and it was all meant to escalate to Ron's or Hermione's eventual death. Potter's mourning would be public, would draw more to his side, would be valid enough reason for the Malfoys to defect. Meanwhile, Malfoy was meant to continue working on the Vanishing Cabinet, and 'Potter' was meant to keep opposing it.

But in secret, Malfoy had begun working on something else:

A stone that would return a Horcrux to its original vessel.

And Draco knew all this, knew all the feverish hours spent in the library, darting away just in time to avoid Hermione or Draco himself… knew all the sleepless nights in the Restricted Section and friendless lunches spent in fruitless experimentation… knew about the Slytherins abandoning him and the hurt he felt, even as he repeatedly told himself it was expedient…

Because he was sharing brainspace with Malfoy, and looking up into what he now thought of as his own features: half-moon sweep of dark lashes against sunned cheeks, wild dark hair, mobile mouth gone silent and still.

 _Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck_ , Draco thought, because Malfoy had kind of  _left it to him from here_ , and hadn't had much more of an idea of how to get them out of this situation than Draco did. He reached out for the Potter palimpsest for aid and –

There  _was no_ Potter palimpsest.

Even as Draco began to panic, he unrolled himself from the Invisibility Cloak, wand out.

"Master Malfoy!" a few of the Death Eaters exclaimed.

"Yes, of course, you fools," Draco said. "Potter tried to dupe me with his blasted Invisibility Cloak, but I prevailed."

Oh, Merlin. He was talking like a two-bit villain.  _You honestly do think you're the villain, don't you?_  he remembered hearing/saying. It took all within him not to shake his head to settle the wildly conflicting thoughts.

"And we're all duly impressed," Lestrange said. "Are we killing them, yet?  _Normally_  I'm all for taking my time, you know, but there  _is_ a battle right outside the door and once it's over, the survivors will want to make sure all their precious Gryffindors are all right," she finished in a sing-song. " _So get on with it._ "

Ron and Hermione and Luna were all staring at him with loathing; Blaise was staring somewhat unfocussed to Draco's right.

Okay. Marvellous. All as it should be. The double-memories were dizzying – literally – Draco pressed his hand to the edge of his favourite armchair and closed his eyes a moment – but he knew whose side he was on.

Maybe they both had. Malfoy had, after all, ensured that  _he_ was the one who'd re-set the wards to keep the rest of the Gryffindors in their dormitories. With a subtle wave of his wand, he cancelled the spell; now he had to count on the others  _noticing in time_  that it had fallen…

"Oi!" one of the Death Eaters shouted, because the figure half-under the Cloak was shifting. "Stupe –"

"Wait!" Malfoy ordered. " _Incarcerus! Mobilicorpus!_ " He floated Potter over to the others and released the two spells. "He… should be awake see this."

"Malfoy?" said his own voice coming out of Potter's mouth.

 _That's not your voice._ This _is your voice. You're speaking with your own voice_. _He's speaking with his. Get it together, Draco._

"That's right. Draco Malfoy, at your service," he said, bowing.

There was a startled pause; if nothing else, he and Malfoy together had convinced the room that Draco Malfoy had completely lost his mind.

In for a knut, though…

"Potter, you troglodyte," he chided. "The proper response is 'at yours and your family's…' though raised as you were, I don't suppose you knew that."

Hermione shot him a startled look, and Ron blinked.

"Where are we? What's going on?" Potter – or else, the Potter palimpsest, Malfoy supposed – snarled.

"Did you  _Obliviate_ him?" Hermione demanded. "Harry, are you all right?"

"I just want to know what's  _happening_ ," Potter moaned, rubbing the side of his head. "What day is it?"

"And here I thought no one was going to take Weasley or Granger away from you," Draco said, voice breaking. "Not without the fight of their lives."

Ron was staring at him intently, now, but surely he had to be wondering about Legilimency, or even about Draco being a literal fly on the wall: he remembered Skeeter. He was also well aware that this would all be going a lot better if Malfoy – he –  _Malfoy_ – hadn't slapped Hermione so hard. Her cheek was pink and swollen. He lifted his hand rub at his breastbone, the idea that he'd hurt Hermione like a physical ache.

When he looked up, Ron was staring at the motion, brows raised.

"I will give you a fight, Malfoy," said Potter, eyes sparking. "Give me back my wand. Go on, give it back…"

"Hermione," said Draco, and Hermione's chin jerked up, surprise writ on her face, perhaps because she thought he'd called her by name. But he said, "what sort of name is that? It sounds like your parents just wanted to prove they were clever."

Hermione turned to Ron.

"Foolish name. Ridiculous," said Draco, and held his wand the especial way Pansy had shown them to use on a Boggart in lessons. "Anyway," he added, taking a breath. "I'd begun to wonder when your time will be up."

Luna looked up in surprise.

Draco could hear – but perhaps only because he was listening, waiting – the cautious turn of a latch coming from the top of the stair.

"I think it's now; don't you?" he said, jerking his head towards the Death Eaters.

 _Wandless_ , he mouthed.

"What?" Potter said.

Well; he still did have Potter's wand, but he doubted it would work for him anymore. Potter would have to make do.

 _"Accio wand!_ " Hermione, Luna, and Ron shouted, and their wands flew out of Draco's own pockets, just as Draco countered Potter's  _Incarcerus_ ; simultaneously, the boys' dormitory door flew open and the remaining sixth-years flew down the stairs, cursing left and right, the girls only a moment behind; Katie's face was fierce in battle, though she made no sound.

" _Episkey!_ " Draco cast, wand aimed at Blaise, before turning to face the Death Eaters. He knew it was a waste of a first spell, but Blaise could cast multiple spells if he were no longer concussed.

The DA operated like a finely-honed machine, even Potter; even Luna, whose face was tear-streaked and whose eyes were swollen. Crabbe and Goyle Senior went down like a tonne of rocks, and Hermione vindictively slashed at Bellatrix, murder in her eyes. In just a few minutes, the Death Eaters dropped, and the rest of Gryffindor advanced like a wave to sweep them into relieved embraces and cheerful backslapping.

Seamus and Dean wrapped Ron in a tearful hug, and Neville piled on from the side. Lavender and Parvati stroked Hermione's hair and called her brave.

"Malfoy," said Potter, emerging from the crowd like a ghost. It was so strange seeing him from the outside, mobile features operating without Draco's express permission, that it gave Draco vertigo.

"Potter," he said.

"I think you just risked your life for us," he said. "That was awfully decent of you." He extended his hand.

Draco peered down at it and back up to his face.

"History repeats itself, eh?" Potter inquired.

Draco blanched, suddenly  _remembering_  thinking  _that fool, who does he think I am that I need his help, that he has the power to offer me,_ me _, Potter's influence, Potter's goodness…_  But that had been while Potter supposedly didn't recall anything. "What?"

"When you stuck your hand out on the train and I didn't take it," Potter said. "I'm asking to take it, now, though."

 _You're just a fragment of soul_ , Draco thought.  _What are you, then – and what was he?_

"Sure," he said, aloud, taking Potter's hand in his own and shaking firmly.

It felt like holding hands with himself.

"There's something I thought I'd never see," said a very familiar voice.

"Ron," Draco said, turning.

Ron's dark blue gaze transferred to his face with laser-focus.

"Weasley, I mean," Draco said.

Ron tilted his head to the side curiously. Draco had made it worse.

But he had to know. "Are you all right? Is everyone all right?" He turned to the Portrait. "Merlin – the battle outside. Everyone!" he shouted, voice rising above the crowd – or trying to.

But no one was listening to him any longer.

Potter nodded with a familiar determination. "Everyone!" Potter shouted. "To the portrait!"

And everyone, even Draco, followed.

When they stuck their heads outside, though, most of the Death Eaters were gone. Those who hadn't fled struggled under  _Incarcerus_.

"There you are, Harry my boy!" Dumbledore exclaimed, relief sagging his features for a brief moment before he composed himself. It suddenly occurred to Draco that no one had seen them tumble through the portrait and, without the Map, no one would have any idea where they'd gone. "I had utmost faith in you…" But then he caught sight of Draco, at the fringes. "…Mister Malfoy," he finished, striding forward to reach for Draco's shoulder and press it.

Draco blinked. It had suddenly occurred to him that Dumbledore had been right about who Malfoy was all along. About Malfoy needing his chance. His cheeks flushed with shame.

"Mister Malfoy has been helping me uproot the Death Eaters," Dumbledore said loudly. "I shall have a more official announcement at supper tomorrow, but know that he has been on our side all along. Or, well," he said, eyeing Draco significantly. "Quite long enough."

Draco swallowed. "Thank you, sir. You know how I like to figure things out for myself. My conclusions were more trustworthy that way."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles. "Just so, Mister Malfoy," he said. "Just so."

Draco would have led a patrol around the castle as Potter was volunteering to do, but he guessed no one trusted him enough to follow him down a garden path, much less through the remains of a war zone... and the Professors swore that they could manage without Potter and the others anyway.

"Where are you going, Malfoy?" Ginny asked, features a picture of confusion, when he pressed his hand to the Fat Lady's portrait. "Slytherin is that way."

Draco looked around and shook his head.

"Look," said Ginny, face twisting. "That must've been – tough, back there. Uh, you've… been through a lot? Do you need something?" She peered into his face, brow furrowing, and she reached out to press his arm. "Do you need help?" she said, more softly.

"I've got him, Ginny," said an incongruously businesslike voice, and suddenly Draco was being led away, Luna's slim arm hooked through his. Something in Draco's chest squeezed, harder and harder again, and he thought he might crumple from the pain of it; but Luna turned a corner and pressed him to the wall once they were out of sight, wrapping her arms around him, tight, and as if it were some cue, they slumped to the floor in tandem.

"Okay. Okay," Luna was saying, over and over; but she was crying, too. She kissed the crown of his head, then kissed it again, then wrapped one arm around him, slim but strong, and eased his head to her shoulder.

"I didn't kill Harry," Draco said, earnestly, peering into her face. "He didn't. He was lying... He doesn't have any memory of that."

"Okay," said Luna. "All right, then. But he's back, isn't he? Harry, I mean."

"In some form," Draco replied, glad for the concrete to focus on. "I still don't understand what Malfoy  _was_ , really. Maybe he was really me. Maybe this is really Potter." His eyes widened. "Merlin! They'll think I could've left anytime, now. They'll think I was doing it all on purpose. I had no way of knowing what would happen if I just…  _left_. I didn't even try and find out how." He gripped her hands in his. "You mustn't let them know what happened, ever. Promise you won't say."

"I promise," said Luna. "But –"

"No," said Draco. "Oh, I don't even know if Blaise is okay – Hermione's face – go check on them, will you? Don't mind me, go find them…"

Luna's gaze darted back the way she came. He could tell that she needed to see the others safe, too.

"Go on," Draco said. "I'm all right, now. I promise."

"You're not," said Luna, "but they're not either, and neither am I. I'll walk you to Slytherin, first –"

"Wait, no. I'm in Slytherin again. No one can see."

"I'm very sorry for that," said Luna, so gravely that Draco cracked a smile.

"Besides," he said, slowly. "Draco Malfoy and Luna Lovegood don't even know each other."

"Well," she said. "We will have to fix that."

"Yes," said Draco. "Well."

"I'm very glad you're not a murderer, Draco Malfoy," said Luna.

"Me, too," said Draco, feelingly.

She stood, pecked him on the cheek. "I wouldn't want my first boyfriend to have been a murderer," she announced, and darted away, laughing, leaving Draco behind, still blinking in surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can forgive you for thinking this is the second-to-last chapter, but this story is far from over. If you've read it, please consider reviewing it! Thanks so much for those who have so far!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologize for the delay, but there is a necessary breath between this chapter and the last.

Draco turned over in bed and palpated the bedside table, sitting up when his searching hands failed to encounter his spectacles. He sat up and flinched… the green-and-silver wall-hangings for a moment seemed entirely foreign… no, no, this was Slytherin… what was he doing in Slytherin?

Draco's breath caught in his throat and he peered down at his spread hands: pallid, slim-fingered hands with hair so pale across the knuckles that it was nearly white. He raked his hands back through his hair and encountered traces of the gel that he – that Malfoy – habitually wore in his hair, and that he hadn't had the motivation to scrape away before he'd collapsed into bed after last night's madness.

There were no bunks in Slytherin, so the clatter of waking students hadn't roused him, but it was still unnervingly silent. Half the beds were emptied, and Malfoy's memories – watery and ephemeral, but nonetheless retrievable – told Draco that more of his dormmates should be there. Their unmussed covers showed that many of them hadn't returned to bed the night before.

Parents might pull their children from Hogwarts if they'd heard rumours of an invasion, Draco realized, whether they were Death Eaters or simply moved in the same circles. He'd probably never see those Slytherins at Hogwarts again. And with the way things had gone the evening before, he strongly suspected next he saw them they'd have fallen on hard times.

But sawmill snoring still emerged from Crabbe's and Goyle's bunks, and Draco ducked his head to smile, then reflexively adjusted his spectacles. When his pointer finger slid straight up the bridge of his nose without encountering resistance, he sighed and laughed again, this time at himself.

Every part of him felt foreign: his balance was shot, and he stumbled to a halt, tensing and relaxing his muscles, re-learning his own body. He moved to the baths to splash water on his face and felt a stab of wary loathing before he could remind himself that the person in the mirror was no enemy (and perhaps had never been). He showered and took a long moment staring at the panoply of hair products there, foreign as the remnants of a fever dream.

Malfoy had taken less care of his things than Draco had of Potter's. His favourite shirt was marred by a series of singes that were marks of magical misfire; his boots were scuffed. Draco pulled on an old dress shirt that had held up well over time and a plain pair of dark trousers before making his way through the Slytherin Common Room, where he made eye contact with and spoke to no one. Then, he descended the stair to eat breakfast, forcing himself not to glance at Gryffindor as he passed. He sat alone and he ate alone.

As strange as it all seemed, he reminded himself, the world had been righted, now.

Everyone was back where they ought to be.

 

* * *

 

"I just – I don't understand," came his own voice – no,  _Potter's –_ a few mornings later. "What does privacy law have to do with creature reform?"

"No, we're not  _calling_  it that," Hermione retorted impatiently.

Draco ducked behind a convenient suit of armour; he'd been dying to know how the bill was coming, but every time he brought it up with Luna, he got about two minutes of useful information before she was talking about other creatures related to werewolves, or music, or the weather, or Quidditch, or trees, or a meditation on how his voice had changed but it was "still quite nice, really".

"That's what this report calls it," Potter muttered, confused.

"That's because Dillinger is a speciest asshole," Blaise said.

Potter turned to him, folding his arms. "Why are you here, again? Remind me."

"Because Blaise crafted half our strategy!" huffed Ron.

Potter dropped his hands to his sides. "I don't  _remember_  that." He sighed. "How many times do I have to say it? Nothing since September. The last thing I remember is getting an owl in the Great Hall at breakfast."

Ron and Hermione exchanged a speaking look. "So you've said, mate," said Ron. "But we swear, half of all this was your idea."

"I mean, it's great if we can help Remus," Potter offered. "Just remind me again what privacy law has to do with – werewolf rights."

"Because," Hermione said, taking a calming breath, "we need to be able to work within existing privacy law to help werewolves without outing them to the general public. If we introduced new privacy laws on top of everything else, then –"

"The bill would collapse under its own weight," Ron finished. "Besides, think about it, mate: changing privacy law would affect too many other –"

"Why don't you guys just finish working on this," Potter interrupted, voice laced with irritation. "I obviously don't even know what you're talking about." And he stormed off, shooting Blaise such a venomous look of suspicion that the usually-unflappable Slytherin blanched.

"Sorry about that," Ron said, staring after Harry with a frown.

"It's got to be so frustrating for him," Hermione sympathized, leaning against Blaise.

Draco realized that Ron was leaning a bit closer, too, and suddenly it was quite clear that there was something couple-ish – or thriple-ish – about them. The abrupt switch in body language made him wonder if Potter even  _knew_.

"Frustrating for  _him_. Yeah," Ron muttered darkly.

"Madam Pomfrey seems to think he'll remember on his own, eventually," Hermione tacked on.

"That's supposing it ever  _was_  really him," said Ron.

Draco held his breath.

"Oh, Ron. Not this again," said Hermione. "Honestly."

"I'm telling you," said Blaise. "There is no way on this earth."

"Malfoy was using Legilimency to get us to trust him," Hermione said. "Using facts and phrases we'd recognize as clues. I maintain that it was quite clever," she allowed, "but it doesn't prove that he was Harry!"

Blaise squeezed Hermione's shoulder and turned to face Ron, features smooth and calm as ever. "We've gone through it together, Ron. First of all, if Harry was Malfoy of all people, who was in Malfoy's body?"

Hermione broke in. "Why would Malfoy have insisted that he, himself, be arrested for the attempt on Katie's life, and then on yours, when he knew it would eventually risk his own freedom?"

Blaise sighed. "Logic aside, I know Draco Malfoy – and that was  _not_  Draco Malfoy."

The hope snuffing out on Ron's features like a candle in a high wind was one of the most heartbreaking things Draco had ever seen up-close. "Yeah," he said, ducking his head. "Yeah, I know." He barked a laugh. "Going a bit mad, I s'pose."

But Hermione had to keep going, like she couldn't help but hammer a final nail in the coffin. "And Ron, if it really had been Malfoy or  _anyone else_  all along… don't you think he would've spoken to us by now? To you? That is, if he meant well."

And Draco knew, suddenly, that she half-believed Ron. Such a comment didn't make sense in any other light. She must have thought if it  _were_  Draco, he was laughing up his sleeve at their naivete… smugly gloating at how he'd pulled the wool over their eyes…

He felt a shock of cold pass through his body, and then an inverted-Dementor sort of feeling, as though his soul was being yanked down to his toes. Because what was she meant to think? How could he fault her for thinking it?

He was Draco Malfoy again: cold, distant Draco Malfoy, whose father was a Death Eater and also a member of the School Board. Draco Malfoy who'd grown up in a mansion, who was given everything he wished for, and for whom none of it could be enough. Draco Malfoy, who might have minions or lackeys, but hadn't ever had a friend. Much less three.

How was he to step outside of himself, now – and how was she to know he was trying?

"Come on, Ron, let's get some lunch into you," said Blaise, slinging his arm over the other boy's shoulder. Ron leaned briefly in before nodding, and the trio headed off down the hall. Draco let the back of his head thump soundly against the stone behind him and closed his eyes.

"What are you doing back there?" came a very familiar voice.

Draco blinked and sidled out from behind the armour to see Luna standing in a patch of sun. Her hair lit white with it, and her head was cocked to the side in question.

"What? Nothing. What? I'm not," Draco said, then winced.

Luna laughed, loud and unabashed; he thought it was the first time that he'd ever  _really_  heard her laugh.

It was delightful.

"You're smiling at me," she pointed out.

"I'm allowed," Draco said, and they headed off towards the Great Hall side by side, but when Draco caught sight of the students chatting in little knots in the hallway ahead, he paused. "Why don't you go and sit with the others?" he said.

Luna eyed him cannily. "I think at the start of this year, I might've said that I understood, because it's normal not to want to be seen with me. Because people get teased when they do, and that's awfully unpleasant."

"Luna –" said Draco, but she held up her hand.

"But now," she said firmly – and her no-nonsense voice was still maybe the most incongruous thing Draco Malfoy had ever heard – "I know that's not it. It's rather the other way around, isn't it?"

Draco's lips twitched, trying to smile for her and failing.

"No one on Harry's side trusts you, and you've openly betrayed the Death Eaters. Lots of their children go to class with us. Why, it's like sitting in the middle of a jorchrap's nest and hoping not to get stung!"

"You've summarized the situation in your inimitable way," Draco drawled.

"But I still like you," Luna said plainly.

"That's," said Draco, and she  _frowned_  at him forbiddingly.

" _I still like you_ ," she said, in that no-nonsense, Wizengamot-letters voice of hers, and stuck out the crook of her arm... pointedly.

Brows raised as high as they could go, Draco offered her the crook of his arm in turn.

She nodded, once, and threaded her arm through. "Just… keep walking," she advised as they faced the hallway. "One foot in front of the other."

Draco could not help but be reminded of Slughorn's Christmas party, Luna at his side, marching forward as though into battle; he could feel her arm trembling, a little, against his. They'd been cooler-headed with curses flying over their heads, Draco realized, and snorted.

"Talk to me," she said as the first heads turned their way.

"About what?" Draco squalked.

"Anything," she replied. "It was very hard to be made fun of all alone, but I hear it's ever so much easier with a friend."

"A boyfriend?" Draco teased, because they hadn't discussed it since.

"A best friend," she replied.

Draco took a breath. "So the hearing is next Tuesday," he said. "How prepared are you?"

"Well, everyone has supposed it's better if I don't talk," Luna said gravely, "since I go off on tangents, sometimes."

Draco, who prized Luna's honesty but still felt a little sorry, patted her hand as a show of support.

"But no one wants to tell Hermione that  _she_  is pedantic, sometimes. It's just that she knows so very much that makes her so eager to share it." She raised her brows and looked up at Draco from under her lashes. " _All_ of it."

"Ha," Draco replied.

"So. Ideally, it would have been you…  _Harry_ … which is to say, you."

A tide of whispers was lapping at the edges of Draco's awareness… he did his best to block it all out but Luna's face, Luna's voice, Luna's hand on his arm.

"Well… but how's the writing going, anyhow?"

Luna snorted. "Oh, it's a disaster. Hermione keeps putting in references to more and more case law, and Blaise can't rein her in. And, I admit," she said, nose wrinkling, "my  _creativity_  makes its way on the page as much as it pops out of my mouth." She gazed up at him intently. "Creativity is all very well and good, but staid people like those on the Wizengamot resent it a bit, perhaps because they have none themselves. While the plight of the Northern Ossified Squap is important in the  _grand_  scheme of things, Hermione and Blaise claim it's "not germane to the argument" which, I mean,  _thematically_  it's still about isolation and marginalization which – I'm sure you'll agree –  _is_ germane," and about the time Draco realized why mystical creatures meant so very much to Luna Lovegood was when he realized they were through the doors, because conversation in the Great Hall had come to a grinding halt.

"Very germane," he said absently, gaze skimming the upturned faces: incredulous, disgusted, startled. "The germanest."

"Focus," said Luna, and Draco turned and laughed at her, because  _seriously, Luna, pot meet kettle_ , and she grinned up at him and suddenly it was all quite all right. "We're still waiting for supporters that run counter to the party line, just as Ron and Blaise always said we would," said Luna, and their path was all so familiar that Draco only realized Luna had led him to the Gryffindor table when he saw his (former) friends' faces across the table, looking as though they'd all been beamed across the back of the head.

"Hullo," Luna said, seating herself and tugging Draco down beside her. "He'll be sitting with us; Draco and I are dating now," and Ron choked on his mouthful of morning tea.

Draco could  _feel_  his face heating, his cheeks burning, and thanked Merlin for Potter's darker complexion, because if he were in his  _own_  skin –

Oh, wait.

Oh,  _no_.

"Luna, what?" said Potter, fork poised with a bite of food hovering halfway to his mouth, forgotten.

Draco palmed his own face, because looking at Potter's was still…

Weird.  _Dissociative._

And yet there was something still so drawing, about watching Potter move, react, without Draco's permission. His hair was back to its rat's nest of old, sticking up at the back, and he was wearing his old clothes under those robes, Draco could tell from the way they all bunched – the masochist. Though knowing the Potter palimpsest, there was something he distrusted in items he didn't remember purchasing. Draco covered his confusion by seating himself, Luna settling beside him.

"Hullo, Malfoy," said Blaise coolly.

"Hi,  _passthepotatoes_ ," Draco blurted, because if he had something in his mouth maybe he wouldn't be required to answer any questions.

Ron handed him the bowl one-handed, still gobsmacked. And apparently making  _eye contact_  with the other boy was shocking enough that it made Ron blink and snatch his hand away, afterwards, as though prolonged contact risked infection with Slytherin pox.

"Thanks," Draco muttered, and served himself and Luna.

"Just because you helped us one time doesn't mean you can sit with us," said Potter.

"I can sit wherever I like," Draco returned, stung. "This is Gryffindor's table, Potter. You don't own it."

"If it's Gryffindor's table, then there have to be at least some Gryffindors who want you here," Potter said flatly.

"I do," said Ron, "for a few questions at the very least. While Luna's got a hold of him and he can't escape."

Luna's arm tightened around his, whether for comfort or so Draco didn't 'escape', he wasn't sure.

"All right," said Draco.

"Did you give the necklace to Katie?" Ron said.

Draco ducked his head.  _Shit_. But he was out of the Harry Potter business, and that meant being himself – all of himself, however bad it all was.

"Yes," he said.

He heard Hermione's gasp but managed to hold back a wince.

Blaise cast a hasty privacy spell around them, but for long moments it wasn't necessary; no one said a word.

"Why," said Ron finally, through clenched teeth.

"There's no need to ask 'why', is there?" Potter growled.

"Because my father intended to escalate over time to the death of one of Harry Potter's friends," Draco said. "As part of a strategy for the war."

The table fell silent; Luna's palm had slipped free of his own.

Draco closed his eyes. "Katie wasn't meant to die. Snape was supposed to be supervising the Hogsmeade trip, and he would've stopped the effects before they went this far. Instead, he stayed behind to help McGonagall supervise my detention."

"And the mead?" Ron pressed. "How did you know it would get one of Harry's friends?"

Draco thought back; it was still challenging, finding the other Draco's memories, and the perspective was like looking through a funhouse mirror: him-not-him. "Slughorn liked to offer his things to favoured students," he said. "I used a special kind of curse on the bottle that would only activate when a minor touched it."

"That's sick," Hermione blurted.

"Yes, rather," said Draco. "But needs must."

"And how did you know that wouldn't kill me?"

"Failsafes on failsafes," said Draco. "Slughorn himself is a Potions Master, for your most obvious."

"I was in the Hospital Wing for days," he returned.

"I know," said Draco, wincing. "It had to look real, or they would have killed you outright."

"And why should you care?" Ron shot back. "I'm just a blood traitor, right?"

Draco found himself again pulling on the Potter palimpsest, out of habit, he realized – trying to figure out how to respond to his best friend. So was any of their camaraderie real at all, or was it Potter all along that Ron had liked? Or worse, some amalgam of Harry and him that Ron would never see again?

"Right," Ron said, and his voice cracked. "Suddenly I'm not so hungry anymore." His plate clattered as he pushed off from the lunch table and stalked away.

Draco chanced a look up; Hermione was staring after Ron with a pained look, but Blaise's attention fell on Draco himself.

His normally placid features twitched, and then...

Blaise Zabini lost his temper.

"What are you doing here anyway?" he shouted. "You're not for Potter; you hate him. You hate everyone at this table, maybe everyone in this room," he said, gesturing out at the Great Hall. "You've always been a  _worm_ , Malfoy, but going after Luna is lower than I thought you'd ever go. I suppose I ought to have known better."

The words hurt Draco, but not so much as he might've thought. He cared for Blaise's opinion – of course he did – but it was as though Blaise had mistaken him for someone else. He wished there were some kind of mask he could tear free to show them who he was, but there was no easy explanation. Presuming anyone believed him, and believed he hadn't done it on purpose... Ron might be disappointed to have lost those new memories he'd made with Harry, but how would he feel if he learned he'd made them with Draco Malfoy, instead? Hermione would never forgive herself for not knowing from the start...

And none of them would forgive Luna, either, for knowing when they didn't.

"Did you think you could show up here one day and they'd trust you, just like that?"

"Why not?" Draco said, surprised when his voice emerged cool, dispassionate. "It's what you did, isn't it?"

Blaise jerked back. "That's not –"

"Someone killed Potter," Draco realized, brows lifting. "Was it you, then, Zabini? You had no interest in Potter or his friends until then. That's a remarkable coincidence."

Blaise exchanged a worried glance with Hermione. "Malfoy… what are you taking about?" Blaise certainly sounded genuine in his confusion, but then Blaise had near-perfect control. For all Draco knew, even his loss of temper had been for show.

"That's the second time you've said that," Hermione offered tentatively. "That Harry's – dead. What do you mean?"

"He doesn't mean anything," said Potter, scowling. "Just because I don't remember anything –" then he brought himself up short, shooting Draco a suspicious glare and flushing a bit. It didn't take a Master Arithmancer to see that Potter's memory loss wasn't meant to be common knowledge.

"All right, this was a mistake," Draco said, standing from the table, ripping his attention from Harry's face.

"You think so?" Potter muttered.

"Excuse me, Luna," Draco said, with a little bow. She nodded, cheeks flushed and eyes brighter than usual. As he departed, he heard her begin a low, sharp whisper to the others. He hoped, viciously, that she gave them hell.

He strode out of the Great Hall and into the Spring sunshine, hands shoved into his pockets, and rocked back on his heels. It was late March, and the sun was strong and newly-minted, even with a hint of rain in each breath and the wind tossing cool fingers through his hair. He hunched his shoulders a bit against the wind and tilted his chin up into the sun.

Draco withdrew the Stone from his pocket, sending it from between two fingers to the next with a sinuous little roll before tossing it up in the air and catching it in his palm. He imagined handing the stone to Potter and sliding back home – of Ron and Hermione and Blaise and Luna surrounding him, of firelight and laughter and the warmth of the Gryffindor Tower Common Room in the winter. 

Even knowing that Luna would never tolerate it, Draco thought it was a good thing indeed that the Stone didn't work that way, that it only returned a Horcrux to its owner.  He sighed and slipped the Stone once more into his pocket.

Draco held few illusions. With Potter back in play, Ron, Hermione, Harry – and even Blaise and Luna – were in fresh danger. Eventually, the Death Eaters would seek to turn or replace one of them, or maybe more than one at once; they'd probably try and kill him outright for his betrayal. A man couldn't be on his guard forever, but he hadn't thought much of that when he'd thrown his cap into the ring. He'd only thought that his friends couldn't die – not because of him.

But they weren't his, he thought. They had all only ever been on loan.

He thought he understood his mother's motivations for transferring him to Potter's life, now he'd been denied it. Sure, Potter's existence was dangerous, too – but he had people he could count on, and implicit prestige enough that the Gryffindors – even the Slytherins – would think twice about hexing him. On the other hand, everyone knew Draco had no allies to protect him.

 

* * *

 

That point was brought home when he casually greeted Pansy on his way to Transfigurations.

She froze, then turned on one kitten heel, her lips pursed as though she were sucking on something bitter. When she spoke, she hissed low, so as to avoid the ears of the students sweeping past. "Now you'll talk? After half a year of ignoring me and telling me there were  _important things_  you were planning, with no room for me…"

"Pansy…"

"And you were really betraying our side all along."

"And normally I'd be applauding your loyalty, but you were on Potter's side as well," Draco reminded her in a low hiss, herding her into an alcove to avoid the press of students. "You were up at the Astronomy Tower, that night.  _Pansy,_ you heard Dumbledore… we've always been on the same side…"

She harrumphed. "So? Doing something oh-so-secret for your Dark Lord… doing something oh-so-secret for the Light… and not  _once_  did you think to bring me in on it…"

It was true: Draco hadn't once thought of telling her.

"Ah ha!" she crowed, pointing. "I  _knew_  it!" She leaned in close, and Draco smelled the shampoo she used, something sharp like soap and petrichor, that smelled a lot more like the real Pansy beneath all the frills and fluff. "You know that a good fifth of Slytherin is on Potter's side these days – openly! – and that's down to you.  _Your_ absence.  _Your_ failures."

Once this might've cut Draco to the quick, but he found his lips twitching. He'd really done it: he'd managed to start to turn Slytherin House to his side. Enough that Pansy noticed. Enough that she'd started to find out – for her own safety, but probably also for 'Harry' – which Slytherins he'd managed to convince.

It was positively gratifying.

"Pans," he said, warmly, and her expression flickered from shock, to fear, and back to a studied wariness.

"This  _kinder, gentler_  you isn't fooling anyone," she countered. "You can claim to be on Potter's side all you like, but  _I know you_ , Draco Malfoy. I know what you are."

"Unlikely," Draco said, but his amusement had drained away. "And my guess is that Potter hasn't been speaking to you, either. Done with you now the battle's over, is he?"

Pansy drew back, hurt in her wide brown eyes, but she rallied quickly. "Potter is reeling from the fight – it's clear there's something the matter with him. Got the bad end of a curse, maybe. Anyway, none of that is your business in the slightest."

"Of course it is," Draco returned. "If I'm to be the one to pick up the pieces. Malfoys look after their own."

She snorted in derision, then leaned in to peer at him. "Merlin – you really do believe that, don't you? The Malfoys use the other Slytherins – they always have. Your father promised mine a little power, a little influence, a few Galleons – and in return, he took  _everything_." Her eyes were hard. "Even the  _hint_ of Death Eater collaboration is liable to get us killed! But Potter is different. He gives us things that last." Her brow furrowed, she added, "I don't know what game you're playing, now. But if you care about anything beyond your family name, you'll be on our side for real. We're going to win," she said grimly, "sooner or later. And then no family influence or Galleons will be enough to keep you from Azkaban."

Draco brought his hands up to applaud, but Pansy turned again on that short heel, her stalking, thumping step making it seem as though she were wearing jackboots, instead.

Pansy had gone and grown up, Draco thought, pleased and dismayed in equal measure.

But she was a soldier without a general, now. Draco predicted that Potter would lose the Slytherins not through drift but via explosion, that he'd witnessed the birth of a third faction in Pansy Parkinson's speech just now. She'd go back to the Gryffindors with her fire and they'd call it counterfeit, and they'd lose her and the others in a shattering break that would never mend.

He thumped his back against the inner curvature of the alcove and huffed an unhappy breath: months of effort destroyed in a matter of days. Draco moved to adjust his spectacles; when his pointer finger slid straight up the bridge of his nose without encountering resistance, he wanted to scream.

The sussurus of conversation of passing students thinned, then stopped as classroom doors closed, leaving him on his own. He closed his eyes to centre himself, but everything felt wrong… he wasn't heavy enough… the decreased muscle mass in his back made leaning against the stone acutely uncomfortable… and he was, unless he was mistaken, just a hair closer to the floor, his centre of gravity shifted low… closing his eyes made him acutely aware of the hair that still hung in front of his eyes and refused to rake back…  _that's why you wore hair gel as Draco Malfoy_ , he reminded himself.

And wasn't  _that_  a strange thought? He  _was_ Draco Malfoy.

Again.

His eyes flew open, and he had to look down at his hands to confirm where and who he was.

This was  _ridiculous._ He was being  _ridiculous._

But the fact remained that he was in no condition to go to classes, now.

Kicking at the air moodily, Draco climbed up, up, up to the Astronomy Tower and peered out across the grounds and towards the Forbidden Forest. He stood there for he didn't know how long when he heard a noise at the step and whirled.

"Good afternoon, Mister Malfoy."

Dumbledore stood framed in the arched doorway that led up to the stars.

"Headmaster," Draco said in surprise, and executed a bow so crisp it startled him. "What brings you here?"

Dumbledore ducked his head to chuckle. "I might ask the same," he said. "I seem to recall a young man chiding me about my life choices, but if that young man shirks his classwork and wanders the castle at will, he has no ground to stand on."

Draco's eye was drawn to Dumbledore's blackened hand; with his non-dominant hand, Dumbledore rolled his sleeve away… the blackness had crept up to his elbow. "Soon it will reach my heart," he announced. "Not today, and not tomorrow. But soon."

Draco's gaze climbed from the darkened flesh and back up to Dumbledore's face, but the old wizard's eyes had not ceased twinkling. "Now I suppose," Dumbledore said, approaching the edge of the parapet and resting his healthy forearm there to lean out, "I will succumb to something slow and insidious: an old man's death." Then he straightened, and his eyes sharpened. "But it is just as well, for Severus's sake."

"Couples come up here to snog, you know. You wouldn't want to be seen getting chummy with a Death Eater's son. I wouldn't linger, if I were you."

"Come now, Mister Malfoy," said Dumbledore, beard twitching with humour.

Draco sighed, folding his arms. "It's insurmountable. I've tried, but Potter's group won't – Ron…" Draco said, then stuttered to a stop.

"And what a pleasant surprise," Dumbledore said mildly, "that Mister Potter is still around to object to your presence."

Draco looked up warily from under his lashes. "Yes, about that…"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled from behind his half-moon spectacles, and he leaned forward and spoke confidentially. "I shall tell you a secret, Mister Malfoy, in exchange for so many of yours. I," he said, with great weight, "am wrong  _nearly_  as often as other people." He straightened. "But never more happily so than of late." His gaze flickered down to his damaged arm. "Perhaps I am wrong about this poison, as well. Who can say?"

"I'm marked, too," Draco said. "I'm counting off the days." He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked up into Dumbledore's face. For the first time, the merriment drained from Dumbledore's gaze.

"My boy," he said, gently. "I am old, and tired, and I know Death when he shakes my hand." He looked up to gaze out into the night, silent for a moment, then turned back to Draco; his beard twitched. "Just as I know when a young man's story is only beginning. I have far more faith in your ability to survive than you do."

"Why are you up here, anyway?" Draco said, lit with sudden suspicion.

"You've caught me," the Headmaster replied. "I missed my old student. I asked the portraits where you'd gone."

Draco blinked.

"The surprise writ on your face," Dumbledore said. "To think Professor McGonagall once called you  _devious_." He paused. "Not coincidentally, it's her class you're missing just now…"

Draco ducked his head, because he still felt a thrill of shock and couldn't quite convince himself to put on some other expression; so he was unprepared when Dumbledore's hand closed carefully around his shoulder, like he were fine china the older man feared shattering. He looked up to find Dumbledore with an expression on his face Draco had only ever seen pointed at Potter, before.

"We still need you," Dumbledore said. "I still need you. You know what I meant to teach Harry. You know about the Horcruxes. You'd started researching them, hadn't you? And set Miss Granger to the same task? You know about Tom's past, his foibles. You understand him, in ways I could not have anticipated."

"Oh,  _thanks_  –"

"You know I did not mean to compare you," Dumbledore chided. "You are no killer, Draco."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I nearly was!"

"You're a pragmatist, like Severus," Dumbledore sailed on serenely. "We could use a few of those on our side."

"Not a good use of your time, sir, making deals with dead men," said Draco.

"And after all," Dumbledore went on as though Draco had not spoken, "Mister Zabini cannot stand alone between Mister Weasley and Miss Granger and the Death Eaters."

Draco's gaze shot up to Dumbledore's, but his attention was far away, gazing out into the night.

"To say nothing of Miss Lovegood," Dumbledore added.

"So it's a hostage situation," Draco said, not knowing whether to be outraged or amused.

"Love always is, rather," Dumbledore replied, and Draco was startled into an incredulous laugh.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure the audience feels the courtroom narrative has been modelled off of something in particular. You'd be half-right. It's a mishmash of multiple minority rights arguments and was written quite some time ago.

The spring days passed by at a crawl. Draco spent the bulk of his time outside, sometimes flying, sometimes hiking with Luna traipsing at his side, sometimes at the edge of the Forbidden Forest with the emerging greenery and sometimes venturing within for long hours. Occasionally he attended classes, but mostly he didn't. He grew quiet and strange, and his hand drifted to rest over his heart so often that Pansy, in one of her sharper moods, demanded to know if he was pledging to something.

He heard Seamus and Dean laughing over him one day the way they used to laugh over Luna.

"Hush," said Hermione in her most forbidding of voices. "Something's obviously wrong with Malfoy…"

Draco plugged his ears and kept walking, and something in him hoped they saw him and felt sorry.

"We could run away, you know," Luna said the Monday before the Werewolf Reform Bill was to be debated before the Wizengamot. "The weather is mild for April, but if it did rain, we could use Shield Charms, and we could live off wild mushrooms and berries in May and June."

"That sounds lovely," Draco admitted, kissing the top of her hand.

"I just don't like seeing you unhappy," she observed. "You were happiest when you could do things that were changing the world – like Harry. I feel as though you've been stuffed into a lockbox and swallowed the key."

"It's not me who's swallowed it, Luna," he said.

She smiled. "No," she said. "I know it's not. I'm sorry."

"And it's not very fair you have to be in that box alongside me."

She looked up sharply. "None of that, now," she ordered in that new voice of hers. "I like the company. I just mean that you need something to  _do_ , Draco, or you'll go mad. Mad is a nice place to visit," she said meditatively, "but I don't think you'd like to live there."

Draco huffed a laugh.

"Come to the hearing, at least," Luna said. "You'll want to see it. You know I won't remember it word for word."

"I can do a Pensieve memory, later," Draco demurred. "Dumbledore has got one, and so has Snape."

"Hmm," Luna said. "If you're sure."

But somehow when the day came, Draco found himself back in the Slytherin Common Room and striding, determined, for his room. The silence that grew in his wake made him wonder how long it had been since he'd set foot in Slytherin – days, judging from the worried and then infuriated look Pansy shot him as he moved past.

He cast a thousand protective and curse-breaking charms, and breathed a sigh of relief when his palm finally met the wood of his trunk without getting zapped, growing boils, or exploding. He drew out his things and moved to the Slytherin baths.

He scrubbed himself top to toe, knowing the Cleaning Charms he'd been relying on only went so far. He reached for a bottle of shampoo and read the side to ensure it was suited to his straight, fine hair. He exited the shower to clip, file, and smooth the tops of his nails, splash moisturizer on his face, and slick his hair up away from his eyes.

His own eyes looked back at him out of his own face, their slate grey leaping out of his image without so much hair in the way. He leaned forward to comb his brows and dressed immaculately.

His clothing smelled overwhelmingly of cedarwood and pine: not like Potter at all. The cufflinks at his wrists were probably something Potter didn't even know existed; the shoes on his feet cost more than Weasley's entire wardrobe. He polished them with a charm before donning them.

Draco peered into the full-length mirror in the Slytherin baths, offered it his most supercilious glare, then spoiled the whole thing by sticking out his tongue.

When he emerged into the Slytherin Common Room – fresh, polished, relaxed, with his hands stuck in his pockets, it grew silent again. Draco whistled, just because, only pausing when Pansy grabbed at his arm.

"What are you planning?" she hissed.

Draco jerked his arm away. "None of your concern, Pansy."

"Just  _tell me_  for once!" she blurted in a fit of temper, and he paused.

"All right," he agreed. "I just want to see what happens. I want to see if they manage to pull it off."

She stared at him, scanning his grey eyes with her own dark, intense gaze; but then she turned away in clear disgust and disbelief. He saw her draw a very familiar coin from her pocket as the doors to the Slytherin Common Room closed behind him, and reflected that at least Ron and Hermione and the others would know he was coming.

 

* * *

 

On the elevator to the second floor of the Ministry, Draco received not a few startled glances; he supposed his features were recognizable. It was hard to say if they disapproved because he was Lucius Malfoy's son; because he was Potter's enemy; or because he'd betrayed the Death Eaters. There was not a group on earth that did not have cause to eye him with discomfort. It almost made him wish to laugh.

He exited the lift and strode to the door to the Wizengamot. Resisting the urge to double-check his outfit or his hair, he pushed open the double-doors and strode inside.

Inside was carefully-controlled chaos. As the hearing was due to the interventions of the Boy Who Lived and his friends, it was naturally a matter of popular interest. He thought he saw Skeeter at the front lines, her assistant snapping away, Quick Quotes Quill at the ready. The Wizengamot had not all taken their elevated seats at the dais, yet; many were milling about, instantly recognizable by the plum robes that were their stamp of office.

Hermione, Ron, Blaise, Potter, and Luna were all at the front of the room in the position of barristers – out of respect or due to someone's idea of a joke, Draco couldn't begin to guess. All looked very fresh, very polished, and very young.

Draco squared his shoulders and took a breath before approaching them.

Ron's and Potter's flashes of dramatic surprise were most gratifying.

Luna stood and threw herself into Draco's arms. "You came!" she exclaimed.

"To boo us," Ron muttered.

"Don't be ridiculous, Weasley – if you can help it, that is," Draco returned. "Luna, Luna, that's Skeeter over there – unless you want to be front page news, you  _will_ detach yourself."

She slid back a step, chastened.

"Wanted to see the Wizengamot in session for yourself, Malfoy?" Potter inquired. "Don't worry, you'll get your chance…"

"Oh,  _Harry_ , if you could avoid being nasty  _just this once!_ " Luna exclaimed, in a passion. "He's here to support us!"

"Like fun he is," Ron muttered in the same tone as before, but Hermione put on her best determined face and jerked a nod at him.

"Thank you for the support, Malfoy," she said politely, and elbowed Blaise, who nodded in turn.

Draco felt a smile break out on his face, and bowed to Hermione. "A worthy cause," he said. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

"Barmy, he is," Ron was saying quietly, but when Draco turned to look at them, only Potter was peering behind him.

Potter lifted one shoulder in mute apology.

Draco blinked, but Potter was already turning to face front.

Perhaps he'd imagined it. Or what it meant, at least.

"The Wizengamot will come into session," came a querulous voice, and everyone, Draco included, hustled to their seats.

"Opening remarks?"

Hermione stood and cleared her throat. "Greetings, members of the Wizengamot, Minister for Magic, Senior Undersecretary, Head Auror, citizens, family and friends."

Draco cast about, and he saw many others doing so as well; eventually he realized that Hermione was correct: while the Minister for Magic was in no way required to show up to meetings of the Wizengamot, he did in matters of national interest, and he had today. Draco could see his shaggy, leonine head, and it was all he could do to keep his expression bland.

Apparently, Potter could be made to see reason if it were pressed on him.

"We are here today for nothing less than a debate of the humanity of an oppressed class…"

Draco couldn't avoid a groan, now. He'd pushed back against that opening; apparently, Potter hadn't.

"…where what's most important is that anyone can join that class at any time," she went on, which Draco  _had_  pressed for. "The curse strikes the young and the old, men and women of all races, creeds, and colours. The youngest documented case of werewolfism is in an infant 18 months old."

Draco could feel the uncomfortable shifts in the room as people came up hard against their mental image of a werewolf as a grown man, inherently dangerous and untrustworthy.

"We hear so much about what new werewolves might have done differently: to avoid walking during the full moon," Hermione went on. "To understand defensive spellwork and practice it diligently. To never go out alone. But these talismans we hold up against the dark," she said, voice turning fierce – and he heard Luna's voice, there, he was almost sure of it – "not preventative measures. There is no way to prevent contracting lycanthropy; no spell, no act, no attitude or behaviour that might have prevented a witch or wizard from becoming a werewolf. Nor any of the rest of us."

Ron had argued against that line, claiming it sounded threatening, and he was right; uneasy murmurs were building, now, but Hermione – warned ahead of time – pressed forward, voice rising to overcome the tide.

"Right now, many in this room are still thinking they will not contract lycanthropy," she said, admonishingly, "because they take ordinary and commonsense measures to avoid it. That they will always be a member of the healthy, a protected class. But it isn't true. Sixty percent of witches and wizards will personally know someone with lycanthropy by the age of seventy-five. Imagine it's someone you love," she said. "Imagine – that it's you."

 _Yes_ , Draco thought, fists clenched in his lap.  _Yes, yes – you've got them, Hermione!_

"If we can't admit this issue belongs to us… if we can't  _own it_ … if we continue to ignore it, ignore  _them_ , we ignore our responsibility to our people. If we can't help the least of us, what does that mean for the rest of us?"

Ron's line, Draco thought, with a starburst of pride, had survived the chopping block.

"And what does it mean  _about_  the rest of us?"

Oh! That was new.

"What does that mean about who we are?"

" _It means we want to be safe_ ," said a voice, and Draco looked up to see the opposition rising, and with a shock he recognized the features of Dolores Umbridge.

"Miss Umbridge –"

" _Prosecutor_ Umbridge," she corrected sweetly.

"Prosecutor Umbridge," the Head of the Wizengamot agreed. "I don't believe Miss Granger was quite finished."

"I'm  _sorry_ , Chief Warlock," she said, honey dripping off her tongue. "I just couldn't subject these good people to any more of her  _lies_ ," Umbridge said. She half-turned to face their audience. "Excuse me," she added, sweetly. "Prosecutor Umbridge, from the Department of Magical Creatures."

Draco felt his stomach turn over, but everyone in the audience was tittering, sounding pleased. Hermione had made them feel uncomfortable, and they could already sense that Umbridge would soothe that discomfort.

"Protecting the least of us," Umbridge said. "It's a very noble sentiment, Miss Granger; I do recall that you were… rather prone to sentiment at school… though you're still there, aren't you? Silly me!" She tittered to herself and Draco wanted to strangle her. "But it is a sentiment I agree with. Where we disagree is in  _who_  is deserving of protection.  _Our children_ ," she said sweetly. "Our children need protection. They  _deserve_  protection. From the… unsavoury elements of society."

"You call people with a terrible curse unsavoury?" Hermione challenged.

"A poor choice of words, perhaps," Umbridge agreed. "But they are prone to criminality. It's been proved in study after study."

"They can't get jobs," Hermione countered. "Calling them  _prone to criminality_  removes the context entirely –"

But Umbridge was skilful at seeing when an argument had failed, and she turned on a knut. "Regardless of the circumstance, it makes them dangerous. We can prove they're more dangerous… unless you're willing to ignore facts and figures, Miss Granger…"

"Facts need  _context_ , they aren't everything –" said Hermione.

Umbridge gave an incredulous laugh, an  _oh-ho-ho_ , and half-turned to the audience, as though to share the joke with them.

Luna tapped Hermione on the arm, and the other girl sat, and Luna rose.

"The Wizengamot recognizes Luna Lovegood," the Chief Warlock said dubiously.

"A starving man is always more prone to criminal acts," she said serenely. "I put forth that even Prosecutor Umbridge might be forced to cheat and lie if she contracted lycanthropy… rather than engaging in such acts as a matter of free choice," she tacked on, and plopped down before the Wizengamot could call her to contempt.

While Umbridge sputtered wordlessly, Ron bobbed up. "We propose simple and straightforward solutions that make the world safer for people with lycanthropy and for all of Wizarding Britain," he said, all in a rush.

"The Wizengamot recognizes Ronald Weasley, son of Magical Misuse Office's Arthur Weasley," the Chief Warlock said, just as swiftly. "But the Chief Warlock adds that this manner of tag-teaming prosecution is highly irregular."

"We're highly irregular, sir," said Luna, and earned a laugh from their relaxing audience.

"But our solutions aren't," Ron pressed on, once the indulgent laughter had settled. "Here we outline a plan for subsidizing Wolfsbane…"

"Subsidizing?" Umbridge sputtered. "The Wizarding World won't stand for their tax Galleons going to these creatures!"

"But you just said that lycanthropists are prone to criminality," Blaise interjected, standing alongside Ron. "Shouldn't you want to make it easier for them to hold jobs and have access to a reliable supply of Wolfsbane? The monthly cost of the Potion is more than many can afford," he added, buying Hermione time to flip through her carefully-prepared speech.

Hermione held up her finger and took up the narrative, gazing down at the parchment in her hands. "As many as eighty-five percent of people with lycanthropy can't afford their monthly medical care, and many turn to substandard brews that haven't been prepared by a licensed Potions Master, with a thirty-five percent per person with lycanthropy for adverse –"

"Why do you keep saying  _people_?" Umbridge spat. "They aren't  _people_. They're  _Creatures_. My department name confirms it!"

There were a few nervous titters, but the beat of silence from Hermione was what they were tuning in to: Draco could tell.

"Because,  _Prosecutor_  Umbridge. They are people, whether or not you'll gift them with the label. Besides, you'll find the community prefers people with lycanthropy -"

"Ah ha!" said Umbridge, pointing. She gazed out at the audience again, but they had gone quiet. "Ah  _ha_ ," she said. "You're doing this for them, are you? Not for the Wizarding Community at large. You're funded by the werewolves, aren't you?"

"That's not a catch," said Ron, testily. "I'm sure we might've been funded by them if they had funding to spare. Luckily, Harry's Galleons have been enough so far for this  _human_  rights issue. As I was  _about to say_ , the cost to the Wizarding taxpayer would be minimal – only an increase in a knut a week for the average household. Moreover, with mass production, we think it may even be less," said Ron, swiftly shuffling through his own parchments. "With large-scale, uh, sourcing of different –"

But as she had any time they actually got to knuts and bolts, Umbridge interrupted. "Any amount of Galleons are too many for the taxpayer to fund. It is not Wizarding Britain's responsibility to foot the bill for an individual's mistakes. True wizards rise and fall on their own, Mister Weasley, and scoff at the idea of a hand up. Besides, everyone knows that studies show that people with lycanthropy –" And she paused just long enough for chuckles to spread through the audience, her face reddening in fury. " _These creatures_  aren't proper members of our society long before they're bitten; that they engage in increased danger-seeking behaviour such as...  _promiscuity..._  and are less likely to be full wizards."

"I'm not sure what any of that has to do with anything," Luna said, "except you seem to be saying that people with lycanthropy deserve their lot, so that you don't have to do anything about it, by implying they are at fault and by linking them to other disenfranchised groups."

"But we  _must_ do something about it!" Umbridge exclaimed. "It's important to contain werewolves to protect our families. If anything, we're being too soft… though I understand Miss Granger's propensity to fight for minorities, given her personal insight," she added sweetly.

Potter put his hand on Hermione's arm and rose. Draco saw that Hermione's face had gone white, and she slumped down into her chair.

"Miss Umbridge," he said.

" _Prosecutor –"_

" _Miss_  Umbridge," said Potter coldly, and the audience was back to twittering. "You aren't going to be a prosecutor for long. Whoever has put you in charge of this will soon see the mistake they made, just as they saw their mistake in briefly making you Headmistress," and perhaps something of Draco had lingered, because it was precisely what he might have said and just how he would have chosen to say it.

Blaise chimed in. "You think Hermione similar to a person with lycanthropy because she's a Muggleborn witch." His fists were clenched at his sides, but he took a breath and released them. "A vote against a measure that makes us all safer – just to  _punish_  werewolves –"

" _People with lycanthropy!_ " Hermione hissed at his elbow.

" _People with lycanthropy_ ," Blaise repeated. "A vote that limits the rights of one group won't stop with that group. Even if you don't want to believe lycanthropy is something that could happen to you, think about limiting the rights of the others in this room for their ancestry. Because of where they live. Because of the school they attend. Because of their house."

"It doesn't end, you know," said Luna in her calm, even voice. "Instead, it gets bigger and bigger until you're the only one who can live in that privileged space."

"Now there are a lot of details to be worked out, and we're open to feedback –"

" _Ron!_ "

"What? We are," Ron said, and now the whole audience laughed. "The  _how_  is negotiable."

"But the stigma associated with catching the curse; the personal judgement about those who carry it; the resistance to employment and accommodations; the  _median_  pay at 50% of those of healthy individuals, where work can be found at all…" Hermione shook her head. "It  _must_  change. If we are to step into the modern age gracefully; if we are to be compassionate, kind, and sensible. If a curse should not be a sentence to slow starvation and death. If we are who we say we are, it must change." She looked up at the Wizengamot, then stared at Harry.

"Well," Harry said, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Are we who we say we are?"

"Are we?" said Luna.

"Are we?" echoed Ron. "Up to you to decide."

"Defense rests," said Hermione, and they all sat.

There was some scattered, uncertain clapping that rose into a respectable round of applause. Even if they were only applauding because the rhetoric had been pretty, or because they'd had truly abysmal expectations of teenaged campaigners, Draco felt he could burst with pride. Umbridge gave a closing speech full of hate and fear, but he barely listened and got the impression no one else was listening, either.

"The Wizengamot will have a short recess to consider the matter put before the court," said the Chief Warlock. Hermione darted forward with paperwork that outlined their ideas more clearly and in greater detail and seemed half-inclined to follow them into chambers to more thoroughly explain, but the court assistant yanked the papers from her clenched fingers and strode off in direction of chambers with a sniff.

"Bloody  _brilliant_!" Draco exclaimed, catching up Luna and spinning her around. Hermione, Ron, Blaise and Harry were staring, but Luna darted forward and pressed her lips to his before sliding down and throwing her arms about his neck.

"Dance with me!" Luna ordered, and he put one hand on her waist and dipped her as she giggled giddily.

"The repetition worked?" she said.

"Brilliant, I say," Draco repeated. "Hey, maybe not the best politics to be dancing before you've won. Jinxes things, you know?"

"Hush," said Luna, and their dance went unexpectedly heartfelt and slow.

Heart full, Draco pressed one hand to her cheek and leaned in to kiss her once more, tender.

Still holding hands, they turned to face the others.

Hermione's smile was warm, and Draco returned it, full of elation. Something Hermione had seen made her understand he would never hurt Luna, and she was pleased for them; it wasn't their old friendship, but it was something at any rate.

Ron and Blaise wore such twin looks of suspicion that Draco was tempted to laugh; Potter looked –

Potter looked  _sick_.

"Hey. Potter. Potter?"

Harry looked up. "Just felt dizzy all of a sudden," he said, and slumped back into his seat.

"That infamous Potter constitution," Draco said cheerfully. "Don't worry, Potter. Put your head between your knees and it'll pass –"

But Potter was lifting both hands to the back of his neck and beginning to shake.

"Get him away from the bloody  _cameras_ ," Ron growled, taking Harry by one arm as Hermione took the other; and Draco found himself swept out into the hall through a side-door.

"What is it? What's happening?" he demanded.

Ron and Hermione were settling Harry on the hallway floor, and Draco cast a quick Notice-Me-Not charm over the other boy.

"It looks like He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," Hermione said, grimly. "He hasn't had one this bad in awhile."

"Gonna get a new Dementor costume?" Ron growled.

"No," Draco shot back. "Merlin's sky and  _stars_ , Ron, if we could attend to the matter at hand?"

Potter's lips parted and moved, but no sound emerged.

"What is it? What is it, Harry?" Hermione whispered, tears standing in her eyes.

The boy's eyes had gone wide and his lips parted in a scream, but again, no sound emerged.

"Oh god," Hermione whimpered. "Harry, Harry, you're here with us, please,  _please_ …"

Draco stared at Harry's lips, their form almost more familiar than his own, and perhaps that's why he immediately knew what Potter was trying to say. He jolted to his feet and stumbled back.

" _Run_ ," he said, and when the others just stared at him, he yanked Luna to her feet so swiftly that she exclaimed in pain. " _Run!_  He's here,  _the Dark Lord is here_!"

And there was a crucial moment of hesitation where they decided whether or not to trust him, and it was  _too much_ , and there was nothing he could say, now, without a half an hour's preparation, except –

" _You're right, Ron,_ " Draco growled. "I was your best friend for over six months, and you made me promise to come to you  _in times of trial_. This is  _trial_ , all right?"

Ron's jaw dropped, his dark blue eyes wide; his gaze darted from Harry on the ground up at Draco, who stared at him urgently.

"I broke you. Marvellous," Draco growled.

Ron gulped fiercely and stood. He cast a Featherlight charm on Harry and scooped him up. "Where to?"

"This is  _really obviously_  a trap," Blaise commented.

"It's really not," Luna said. She put a hand atop Draco's blonde head. "This is Harry Potter!"

"I'm – not  _really_ , Luna –"

"Oh, for all intents and purposes," Luna said, waving her hand.

"Semantics later – running now!" Draco urged, and herded them all down the hallway. He found a dark, empty office of some minor official which gave way easily under Hermione's  _Alohomora_. They piled inside and closed and locked the door behind them. Draco cast the wards they'd designed for around the dorms.

"Okay, talk," said Ron, folding his arms.

Draco glanced down at Potter, who they'd propped up against the wall. He was still out of it, muttering to himself and trembling in fits and starts. "Hardly the time, don't you think?"

"Talk.  _Now_ ," Ron suddenly shouted. "Now! What do you  _mean_  we were best friends?"

"Ron!" Hermione whispered, urgently, casting Silencing charms everywhere.

"The Dark Lord is  _literally_  in the lift right now, if I'm reading Potter right," Draco said. "Angry recriminations can wait!"

"What?" Blaise said, white-faced. "He's – literally in the lift?"

"On his way to kill everyone in that courtroom. We should've  _thought_ of this!" Draco said, raking both hands through his hair. "Every important progressive thinker in Wizarding Britain and enough of the Wizengamot for a referendum. Harry Potter. The  _Minister for Magic!_ " He looked up at the room, from Hermione and Blaise, wide-eyed, white-faced, and clinging to each other, to Ron, still angry and baffled by turns, to Luna, tight-lipped, finally to Potter, slumped on the floor.

"Stay here," Draco said.

"Wait. What?" said Hermione.

"Werewolf reform," he said. "This is my fault." He turned to face the door and felt that shove from behind, like the Potter palimpsest was still with him. "I put them in that room together."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione snapped. "Of course we're going back, too. All those people…"

" _No_ ," Draco said. "I'm marked by both sides. It's a matter of time for me. So let me do this." He turned to face the others, and felt his gaze go fierce. "Don't let them defeat the bill. Make them vote out on the lawn while the building burns if you have to," he said, and then – miraculously –

He was out in the hallway, and he'd closed the door behind him.

He drew his wand, stuck close to the corridor walls. There was a jibbering voice of terror chattering at the back of his mind, but he pulled on the Potter palimpsest – or the echo of it that had grown in his chest like a vine, like a flower, like a parasite, keeping his feet marching forward, and narrowing his gaze to the short space from the office to the courtroom door.


	21. Chapter 21

Draco made it just as the lift door opened down the hall; he caught sight of the edge of a threadbare cloak before he closed the door and cast those very familiar wards against it, quietly and without fanfare. He sought out the shaggy, leonine head of the Minister for Magic and beelined for him, leaned close to his ear. The Minister drew back, eyes wide and horror-struck, and Draco nodded, once.

"Everyone!" said Minister Scrimgeour. "There is a spell mishap on the floor above us, and the court will need to relocate! Please exit through the front-"

Draco shook his head.

"Using Apparition," Scrimgeour amended.

The surprised and unsettled murmurs that rose up among the bystanders told Draco all he needed to know:

Voldemort had risen an Anti-Apparition barrier, probably when the trial started.

A  _THUNK_  shuddered through the air like a clap of thunder. Everyone's attention was drawn inextricably to the doors...

Witches and wizards clambered around to face the sound, backs to the windows, though a few remained in their seats, perhaps convinced it was all some sort of mistake, that the others were overreacting...

Scrimgeour seemed to realize the situation had fallen beyond plausible deniability, and drew his wand. "To me!" he shouted. "Ranks!"

Draco drew back to stand at Scrimgeour's elbow, wand aloft.

But then…

From purses and pockets and cloaks the seated witches and wizards drew familiar white masks; they donned them and became a faceless horde, drew their wands, and advanced on the crowd.

"Easy," Scrimgeour said, as the rattling thumps rained down against the side door. "Easy, everyone –"

"What is the meaning of this racket?" the Chief Warlock said, emerging from chambers, followed by other members of the deliberating Wizengamot. His face drained of colour once he saw the milieu, caught sight of the Death Eater Masks, but he raised his wand. "How dare you?" he began, but Scrimgeour, mouth drawn back in a snarl, raised a hand to silence him. A vibratory silence fell, but for the thunk against the side-door of the Wizengamot; even the masked Death Eaters were held in abeyance.

Then, the side door splintered with an enormous crack, and Voldemort stepped through the clearing smoke.

"Hello, ladies and gentlemen," he said, as Death Eaters spilt in behind him.

There were too many – far more than Draco had ever known existed. They were like locusts, spilling into the room until the entire court was ringed with them. Gazing about the courtroom, Draco had to wonder how many of them were under  _Imperio_ ; Voldemort should not have been able to raise a host this large so soon after the Battle of Hogwarts.

"Mister Malfoy, what a surprise," Voldemort said, the picture of gentility.

The Potter palimpsest nudged. "Tom," said Draco, and got the pleasure of watching the monster recoil.

" _What did you call me?_ " he hissed.

"Tom. Thomas. Rather common name. Gives away your origins, really," Draco said. "I see why you changed it. Not exactly named for a constellation, are you?"

Scrimgeour was staring at him in horror, and Draco could barely speak, his tongue was so thick and heavy with adrenaline, but somehow his lips were still moving, somehow sound was still emerging.

"All fear my name!" Voldemort growled. "They fear to have it pass their  _lips_  –"

"Voldemort," Draco said. "Voldemort. Voldemort." He tilted his head to the side. "No, my situation doesn't appear to have worsened, does it? Then – how could it? When we have nothing to lose, we can do anything at all..."

"Not for long," Voldemort growled, bringing his wand to bear.

"Hang on," Draco said. "You want to watch out; I'm holding one of your Horcruxes, after all." He feigned concern. "You could destroy it by accident."

Voldemort's wand lifted, as though the very idea of him holding one of his own Horcruxes at wandpoint was more than he could bear. "You're bluffing," he growled.

"I'm not," said Draco. "I've got Slytherin's Locket… the Locket that was your mother's."

Voldemort's eyes widened in a flash, before narrowing back to slits. "Give it here," he ordered. "Give it here and I'll spare you."

"Release some of these people and I will," said Draco. He could feel an internal tremble emanating from his gut and sliding down each limb. His hands were beginning to shake. He clasped them behind his back, nails digging half-crescents into his palms.

"You're in no position to negotiate," Voldemort said, advancing, wand extended.

Behind Voldemort, Draco could see, now, the edge of a familiar bushy head poking through the side-door, and cursed silently. Of course, the Gryffindors had crept up from behind; they had to ruin everything, Draco thought fondly.

"Give it to me," said Voldemort. "Give me the Locket, and I will spare you. I will spare your family…"

Draco's breath stuttered. He hadn't let himself think beyond this moment, this final defiance, and Voldemort's words reminded him he was not alone in this. The thought that his father could be harmed for his defiance... his  _mother_...

 _Tom_ , he thought wildly.  _Just a scared little boy…_

"All right," Draco said, fishing in his pocket. "All right, just – easy, now," he said, and approached Tom as slowly as another man might approach a rabid dog. He kept his wand hand angled down, his right hand extended, fist closed.

Draco had never been so close to Tom Riddle… sharing his space, his breath.  _Only an arm's length away_ , he thought, giddily… but it was just Tom, Tom who wanted to stop hurting people and couldn't because of how he was built… Tom, who invented ideologies to cloak the ravening monster he was inside, to keep himself from thrashing out at the world indiscriminately. Draco wondered what that must feel like… the mental equivalent of years of physical torture… and afraid, always afraid…

"What are you doing?" Tom hissed. "Open your hand… give it to me!"

He could see the others just behind Riddle, Luna with her heart in her mouth, Hermione, Blaise and Ron clutching at each other…. He could see Luna raise her wand, but he met her eye and shook his head.

"If I give this to you," Draco said, slowly. "If I do, then everyone here will be safe?"

Riddle nodded. "Yes. Yes… just give me the Locket and I will release everyone."

Draco stared into his mad eyes, knowing it was all a lie. But all he had left was hope.

He reached out and dropped the Stone into the centre of Riddle's palm, then instantly closed the other man's cold fingers around it.

 _Please_ , he thought.  _Please work. Oh, please –_

Riddle stared at him as Draco pressed his hand closed. "What have you done?" he demanded. " _What are you doing?_ " He tried to wrench his hand away, but Draco clung with Potter-inspired tenacity.

"What am I  _undoing,_ you mean," Draco said, and Tom fell to his knees, Draco still hanging on for dear life. A window smashed in as a bright light travelled from who knew what distance to slam into Tom's chest; he took a rattling breath. The second climbed down his throat – all his remaining Horcruxes were flying home.

"NOW!" Draco shouted. "Fight, if you want to live!"

The rest was chaos. Draco wrestled with Riddle, who was more whole and hale than he had been in decades… Riddle fought like a cornered Muggle, but Draco was ready… he knew Tom and knew what he would be like … he kept Riddle's fist clenched around the smoothed river stone even as Tom kicked and hissed and spat, until he'd counted four Horcruxes returning. Then he rolled away and took a blow to the chin from a Tom Riddle full of desperate strength… Draco's neck snapped back and he heard something crack…

A figure hauled Riddle off of him… through Draco's dizzied vision, he made out a leonine head and large arms… and then he saw himself, pulling him out of the action and rolling him underneath the barrister's table…

"What 'm I doing over there?" Draco muttered, staring up at a familiar pair of sharp green eyes behind smudged spectacles, set under wild hair.

"You've a concussion," said his own voice. "Stay  _put_ , Malfoy!" and he ran back into the battle.

"No. No,  _definitely_ not," Draco muttered to himself, "I'm not – it's my  _responsibility_ …"

But then suddenly, as though a child had abandoned her puppets for better play, the people in Death Eater masks slumped to the floor. Draco pulled himself forward on his forearms until he could sit up by clinging to a table leg... the courtroom spun queasily... All about the room, the Death Eaters were stirring, now, ripping off masks… staring around themselves in horror… and the few Death Eaters remaining were lifting their hands into the air.

"No!" one screeched. "My Lord!"

Draco looked over to see the slumped form of Tom Riddle, his eyes gazing up, up, up into nothing. Sightless.

Dead. He was  _dead_.

"Draco. Draco!"

He wrenched his gaze away from the carnage with difficulty to find Luna stroking his face with her hands. "Are you all right?"

"What?" he said.

"He's got concussion for sure," his own voice and face observed.

"Stop… copying me," Draco replied, and the uncertain smile on Potter's face suddenly made him realize who he was looking at. "Potter?"

Potter knelt so he was at eye level. "Yeah, it's me," he said. He reached out tentatively before letting his hand fall. "You all there, Malfoy?"

"I think part of me is over there," Draco observed with a frown, looking up at Potter.

"Okay, let's get you to a medic," Potter said, and hauled him upright. "Whoa, whoa," he said when Draco began to list. "Ron, a little help?"

Ron ducked under Draco's other arm.

"Ron?"

Ron wrapped an arm securely around his waist. "That's me," he said.

"What am I doing standing over there?" Draco said. He felt like that question had been resolved, but the reasoning had slipped by him again, and he felt he had to be sure of the answer before he went anywhere.

"I'm not sure, either," Ron confided, "but," he said, then paused, looking carefully into Draco's features. "But I'll sort it?"

"Oh," said Draco. "Okay."

The flash of surprise on Ron's features worried Draco for an instant, but then Ron's arm tightened about his waist, and his expression shifted to a fixed determination that felt more familiar.

"Hey," said Draco. "Hey, Luna. Are you all right?"

Luna appeared in his field of vision again – it felt strangely instantaneous, not-there-then-there… "I'm fine as the hair off a Kerwhuffle," she said.

Draco laughed. "I love you, you know? I really do."

"Okay," she said, softly. "Okay, Harry? I think he's about to pass out."

And as usual, Luna was absolutely right.

 

* * *

 

There was a smell in the air: fresh spring wind with a hint of rain in it.

 _Petrichor_ , thought Draco.

Then,  _Pansy_.

Draco blinked the ceiling into existence: huge beams, crisscrossed with buttresses for support, all whitewashed. He turned to see sunlight beaming through tall windows set deep into the walls… the Hospital Wing.

He moved to sit up, but when he did, his head rang like a bell. He pressed a hand to the back of his head but touched rough-weave cloth, instead… gauze…  _bandages_.

"Ah, Mister Malfoy!" Madam Pomfrey exclaimed, bustling in from her office. "Wonderful, wonderful… how many fingers am I holding up?"

Draco peered carefully; after sitting up, everything seemed ringed in light. "Three?" he said.

"You'll do," she replied with a smile. "Here you are, Headache Potion."

Draco quaffed it thankfully; his head felt swollen and oversized, like it wanted to wobble on his neck, and a profound exhaustion had taken over his limbs just at the effort it took to sit up. He propped himself up on pillows and leaned back with a sigh.

"A few people wanting to speak to you," Pomfrey said. "Popular lad. I'll just go ahead and let them know you're awake, shall I?"

Draco opened his mouth to protest that he didn't really feel equal to any of it, but Madam Pomfrey had hurried off already and besides, the potion was kicking in, clearing his head of cobweb and chasing away most of the pain.

A few more minutes and Albus Dumbledore swept through the Hospital Wing doors. "My boy!" he said.

Draco blinked slowly at him.

"Are you well?" Dumbledore inquired, pulling up a chair and seating himself beside Draco's bed. "That was quite a knock you took."

"I… think so," said Draco. "Hurts."

"As well it should. Not many can say that they took a punch from Tom Riddle and lived to tell the tale."

Draco's eyes widened as it all came flooding back… Tom… the others… the Stone… the Imperiused horde rising from the seats in the courtroom like Inferi…

"Is everyone all right?" Draco demanded. "Where are the others?  _The vote, did they vote?_ "

"A consummate Slytherin until the very end," Dumbledore chuckled, "and I do mean that in the best possible way." Dumbledore frowned, then, and added, "I am afraid they did not vote. Too many of the Wizengamot fled to have a referendum. But there was already muttering that it was clear that they had worse to worry about than werewolves… talk of rogue Death Eaters, and the giants mobilizing to the south…"

"They just wanted an excuse not to," said Draco. "The audience was on our side, I could tell – the  _people_  were on our side."

"Likely," Dumbledore agreed. "Highly likely. The Chief Warlock is already saying that – ah, here we are," he said, and Draco looked up to find the door opening. He expected Luna, but instead, standing in the doorway was none other than Remus Lupin.

Blinking, Draco leveraged himself up straighter, then flopped back when his head spun uncomfortably.

"Easy, Mister Malfoy," said Lupin. "Good to see you  _mostly_  intact. I hear I owe you a great debt."

Draco looked over at the other man, who was offering his hand to shake. At the start of the year, Draco would have scoffed, or even recoiled in disgust. Four months ago, he would have hesitated before forcing himself to engage.

But he'd argued that werewolves were  _people with lycanthropy_  in half of his waking moments, since, and so he took the other man's hand immediately.

"Hardly," he said, flopping back against his cushions. "The initiative failed. Explosively."

"Hardly," Lupin echoed. He pulled up a second chair and sat, hands folded; Draco saw that his sleeves were frayed and suspected Lupin hadn't been able to land a steady job since Hogwarts, three years back. "Last I saw you, Mister Malfoy, you looked… rather different."

Draco's gaze darted to the Headmaster's.

Dumbledore tipped his head. "The Order knows," he explained. "No one else."

"I seem to recall you trying to convince me that Draco Malfoy was a dangerous lunatic, akin to Voldemort himself."

"Easy, now, Remus," said Dumbledore gently. "Any man can find he's been wrong about himself."

Draco huffed.

"And that Arthur and I were doing our best to instruct you in the proper use of your power as the Boy Who Lived," Lupin went on. "Telling you that you couldn't just expel Draco Malfoy on a whim."

"I remember," said Draco, cautiously. "At Christmas."

"At Christmas," Lupin said, smile warm.

It confused Draco enough that he dropped his gaze to the hands folded in his lap. Lupin should be shouting, not wearing that fond expression.

"And after I thought you'd really taken it in," Lupin went on. "After you'd really absorbed that Harry Potter could say things and do things and press for change without question, the  _very next thing you told me_  was that it was time to draft legislation for werewolf reform." He chuckled. "Though after  _that_  you congratulated me for not murdering Fenrir Greyback: a very Slytherin compliment. I should have known."

Draco blinked. "I… did I?" He frowned. "I suppose that I did, but –"

"Mister Malfoy," he said, and Draco looked up. "Our initiative was not a failure. There was not a vote, today. But most werewolves now see that the Death Eaters prevented the vote in order to destabilize the Wizarding World as a whole; and that they used one of our rare attempts at legislative action as a stage for a massacre, without a care for what that might mean for us. Greyback is still alive," he added, "but he won't be gaining new followers anytime soon. And even his base doubts him." He smiled. "We certainly made a big enough splash that no one can avoid hearing about it!" Lupin reached out carefully, and pressed one of Draco's hands between his own. "We could not have got so far without you – do you understand?"

Draco lifted his free hand to his chest and nodded, wordless.

Lupin eyed Dumbledore. "None of us could have got so far without you."

Dumbledore, sitting at Lupin's side, nodded. "A million points to Slytherin," he added with laughter in his voice, and Draco dizzily wondered whether the House counters understood that command.

"I misjudged you –" Lupin began, put Draco held up his hand.

"Uh, no. You really,  _really_ didn't," he said. "I was a little gobshite."

"But," said Lupin, standing, "everyone has the right to grow up. Lots of people are idiots at fifteen," he added, then bowed before departing.

"Wow," said Draco.

"Wow, indeed," said Dumbledore.

"Is he – really dead?"

"Tom?" said Dumbledore. "I do suppose that he finally is, yes. At long last."

"Who killed him?" said Draco.

"You played your part in it," said Dumbledore meditatively. "Without that Stone of yours…"

"The work of six months," said Draco, remembering long, fruitless hours in the Room of Requirement.

"Only someone who made division of himself could have made it happen," Dumbledore observed. "The idea of using the Stone – why, I don't think that Draco Malfoy  _or_  Harry Potter could have thought of it on his own."

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but paused.

In all those long, feverish hours – in doing nothing but obsessing over the Stone and the Cabinet and the escalating violence against his classmates – never once had it occurred to  _that_ Draco Malfoy to use the Stone on Tom Riddle. Direct engagement with the monster had been quite literally unthinkable. And, he thought – unless he was mistaken in Potter – Harry would have gone about it all the hard way – the  _Gryffindor_  way – destroying the Horcruxes one at a time, instead of trying to make Tom Riddle whole. He would have attacked the problem with an  _Expelliarmus_  rather than an  _Alohomora._

If this had never happened – if Draco had never been Harry Potter – he might not have done enough research on Horcruxes to ever have  _had_  the idea.

"Merlin's sky and stars," he whispered, feeling suddenly faint again.

"And his whole, smiling moon," Dumbledore added. "And now, I think I shall let you sleep, Mister Malfoy. You still look a bit like you've been dragged by a hippogriff backwards."

"Oh, thank you, sir."

"No, Mister Malfoy," Dumbledore said, grave-eyed behind his half-moon spectacles. "Thank  _you_."


	22. Chapter 22

Draco might have liked to have been able to blame Luna for not visiting – and Ron, and Hermione, and Blaise, though he tried hard to think of something else when that rose to the surface – but Madam Pomfrey only kept him a few more hours, feeding him Headache Potion twice, making him walk a straight line, and then shoving him out the door with the promise he'd check in twice a day over the next week.

Still. Emerging into the hallway with no one waiting for him was one of the loneliest moments of Draco's life. He stood quiet, swallowing past the lump in his throat, hands stuffed deep in his pockets so no one could see them tremble. A pair of younger Ravenclaws darted past in search of their next class, not even bothering to spare him a suspicious glance. It was as though he wore Potter's Invisibility Cloak.

And Draco felt something – something like the tugs he used to receive from the Potter palimpsest. A tug upward instead of forward. A tilt to his chin that felt familiar, an urge to do something reckless, or even cruel, to  _make them look_. To render himself visible again.

Blinking, he shook the impulse free and gazed about the corridor, as if for someone with whom to share this strange experience, but of course it had all happened inside his own head. And as strange as it might seem now, he was alone, there.

"Oh, one more thing, Mister Malfoy!" said Madam Pomfrey behind him.

Draco jumped a mile.

"I almost forgot. Professor McGonagall wanted you to go and see her once you were well enough. I went ahead and firecalled her to let her know you were on your way."

"McGonagall?" Draco queried, a beat too late – Pomfrey was already withdrawing, and a split second later, the door to the Hospital Wing clicked closed.

He made his way to McGonagall's offices, trying to recall if she were in the Order and would  _know_. She didn't leave him to wonder long, however. When he knocked, she opened the door with a spell and eyed him over her spectacles. "Mister Malfoy-Potter," she said, dryly.

Draco blinked.

"Do come in," she added, though it was more of an order. Draco eased inside one shoulder at a time, closing the door behind him. The embers of a fire from the coolness of the early morning lingered in the hearth of a fireplace to his left. On the mantle sat the House Cup; the place was heavily decorated not in Gryffindor red-and-gold, but what he had to imagine was the tartan of House McGonagall. "Sit, sit," Professor McGonagall snapped, gesturing to the two, empty upholstered chairs before her impressive teak desk. "The Headmaster tells me we owe you a great debt of gratitude," she said.

Draco seated himself slowly, wondering if McGonagall had cursed the chairs in some way. "That's up to the Headmaster to say," he returned.

"Hmm." She stared at him, intently.

There wasn't much Draco could do but stare back. Perhaps the Deputy Headmistress would prefer he dropped his gaze, but seven months of following the Potter palimpsest's headstrong advice had formed a few intransigent habits.

"What I do know is that you've been skipping my classes for the better part of term," McGonagall finally said.

Draco lowered his gaze, now, just so he hid his expression. This of all things was  _not_  what he'd expected Professor McGonagall to say. "I was present as Harry for most of term," he explained.

"Except for the past few weeks," McGonagall supplied. "I hear you've been wandering the moors like an Edwardian hero, since."

Draco coughed. "Well…"

A knock sounded at the door.

"Come in!" the Deputy Headmistress carolled... and Draco felt a sinking in his gut as he realized that there were  _two_  chairs set to face her.

Sure enough, Potter's voice rang out: "Malfoy?"

"Mister Potter. Do come in all the way, and stop catching flies."

But 'Mister Potter' did not. He stayed in the open doorway, even though Draco knew the Potter palimpsest – er, Potter himself, he supposed – would be urged forward.

So Draco stood and retreated to the fireplace... and the impulse to increase the distance between Harry and himself had been the right one. Whether that was what Potter wished, or whether Potter was stung by the concession, Draco still didn't know, but it got the other boy through the door and seated before McGonagall's desk.

"It has come to my attention," said Professor McGonagall, "that you have missed a great deal of schooling through no fault of your own, Mister Potter," she said, and Draco's stomach sank to his toes.

"Yes," Potter drawled, gaze flickering to where Draco stood.

"And there might be… other aspects of your education… that need remedying," McGonagall went on.

"The great gaping holes in my memory, you mean," Potter gamely supplied. But when Draco turned to look, Potter was sitting perched in McGonagall's chair, poised to run. His fingers clamped its edge. He looked as young as he had that day in the courtroom, and Draco's heart turned over in his chest.

He immediately berated himself, but how was he supposed to look at  _himself_  clearly feeling small and sorry, and remain unmoved?

"And I felt," said Professor McGonagall, "that Mister Malfoy –"

"So it's true?" Potter said.

"A great many things are true," said the Deputy Headmistress. "But if you're referring to Mister Malfoy taking your place for a time, yes. I'm afraid so."

Draco eyed Potter. Well, if the Order knew, it was only a matter of time before Potter would know as well.

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand," Potter said, still speaking mostly to McGonagall, but now and then his gaze darted over to take in Draco, standing by the embers of the fire. Potter's mouth flapped silently, and it would have been funny except for how the last time he'd seen that, Potter was in the throes of a Dark-Lord-induced seizure.

McGonagall seemed willing to patiently wait him out, in which case so was Draco.

"It's… dawning on me. What it really  _means_ ," Potter said. "You… sat in my classes. You… ate lunch with Ron and Hermione every day… Every day… for seven months, you were me," Potter said.

"Yes," Draco said, cautiously.

Potter stared at him so long that Draco dropped his gaze.

"What?" Draco demanded of the tartan rug.

"Good picks for Quidditch," Potter said, eventually.

"What?" said Draco.

"Indeed,  _very_  well done," chimed in McGonagall.

"The team's in good shape," Potter added, scratching the side of his nose. "And the DA… and bringing in the Slytherins…"

"What are you trying to say?"

Potter's features hardened. "And Ron and Hermione – they're okay."

"Why would I hurt Ron or Hermione?" Draco queried, baffled, but then Harry turned to stare at him.

Draco opened his own mouth and closed it. He wrestled with himself for a long moment before he could finally make himself say it. "They were my best friends, too, you know. For half a year."

Harry frowned and opened his mouth clearly to argue, but the Deputy Headmistress raised her hand in the air and he subsided, looking puzzled.

"Potter, have a ginger biscuit," McGonagall ordered, and Harry took one, numbly. "Let's get down to brass tacks, shall we? Mister Potter – seven months are missing from your life, and one and only one person is uniquely suited to fill in the blanks. Mister Malfoy, you have spent the last several weeks traipsing over hill and dale, leaving untouched the formidable mess in your wake. Gentlemen, it's past time you both faced the music."

Potter's fingers clenched harder on the chair's edge; Draco swore he could hear the wood creak.

"Seven months is a great deal of time," said the Deputy Headmistress kindly, "but I do think if you were to meet once a week for the remainder of the school year –"

" _What?!_ " Potter shouted.

"…that you could begin to mend one another," she finished in an even lower voice.

Potter flinched.

"Mister Malfoy, it's my understanding that you were possessed of no fewer than three separate consciousnesses in that timeframe. Is that true?"

"I…" Draco counted rapidly. "...yes?"

"You will both see a mind-healer as well," McGonagall announced.

"Hey," said Potter, weakly.

"If the mind-healer deems you fit, you will not be required to engage in any further sessions," McGonagall said firmly, "but I would be no Head of House to you if I did not make sure your minds were intact after such a willy-nilly swapping of celestial houses. What if a bit of Mister Potter is still stuck in Mister Malfoy, or the three consciousnesses don't integrate properly, and you end up sometimes Mister Malfoy who cursed his classmates; sometimes the Mister Malfoy who saved their lives; and sometimes Harry Potter?"

Draco felt himself blanch.

"Wait – he had my  _consciousness_?" Potter demanded. " _How_?"

"I'm afraid that's for Mister Malfoy to say," the Deputy Headmistress protested. "Here, Mister Malfoy, have a ginger biscuit; you look a little queasy."

"Thank you," Draco said, and crunched down on the treat, barely tasting it.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Draco escaped the Great Hall to find that Katie Bell had preceded him outside; he recognized that whip of dark hair in the wind, and for a moment he had to press his hand to the stone of the castle and close his eyes to steady himself against the memories of snow and that selfsame dark banner streaming out behind her.

She had a plate of mostly-finished lunch on the earth beside her, and was staring off into the distance. If Draco turned now, she might never see that he'd emerged from Hogwarts. They could both go about their lives.

Taking a breath and summoning the memory of the Potter-palimpsest's strongest nudge, he launched himself from the doorway and towards her.

She looked up and her dark eyes widened; then she arched one, dark brow.

Not afraid of him in the slightest.

When he stood, silent, she waved her open palm at the dirt beside her, and Draco sat.

"Hullo, Katie," he said.

She waved. Even her wave looked sarcastic.

"I must apologize to you," Draco said. "I'm so sorry that I hurt you. Sorrier that part of it doesn't seem reversible. Nothing can make up for it, but I'll do anything you like."

Katie frowned at him, lips parting in surprise. Those large, dark eyes went shining.

Then her expression closed off like a slamming door and she shook her head swiftly, standing.

Draco's neck craned up to look at her; Katie stomped one foot, hard, and began to gesture to him too swiftly for Draco to make out her meaning. In a silent, red-faced diatribe, she threw her arms wide, paced in a tight circle, gestured to Draco and herself and the Wizarding World as a whole, and once, noticeably, to her throat. Eventually, she wound down, huffing, then threw both hands down emphatically, eyes widening, as though to underscore some vital point that demanded a response.

"I'm sorry," Draco said. "I'm sorry."

She gestured to him again, palm open; then, when he frowned, rolled her wrist.  _More._

"He – I – bought the necklace because I was ordered to kill Dumbledore. Or the Death Eaters would kill my family. The necklace was meant for him, or that was the original plan…"

Katie brought her hands to her lips and then pointed emphatically to a familiar turret of the Castle.

"Yes, I told Dumbledore about it," said Draco. "I told him that I'd done it straightaway, only… he didn't believe me. No one believed me. I told you, do you remember? That I knew it was Malfoy."

She frowned and mouthed  _Harry_?

"In a manner of speaking. But the point is, you could press charges. I shouldn't blame you. I should," he said, remembering his own words. "I should go to Azkaban for what I've done."

She reached for his collar and hauled him to his feet. Her eyes were shining again, and she shook him. Then she shoved Draco away with a wordless cry, stomping off to the Castle. He could hear Katie crying.

Draco sank to the grass, too sick of himself to even rub at the empty spot behind his collarbone to ease the ache.

 

* * *

 

By May, Draco's life had ordered itself into a routine, albeit a rather grim and lonesome one.

He set an alarm only he could hear for very early in the morning and crept outside in what he'd designated his  _rambling clothes_ : a pair of trousers thinned at the knee from much use; a loose, button-down shirt with a tear in the sleeve; and an old cloak out of season. He grabbed them and headed out into the cool of the early morning.

Sometimes, Luna would be awaiting him, sitting on a tree stump at the edge of the Forbidden Forest and swinging her legs. Other days he would wander alone.

Today was such a day.

He did a circuit of the grounds, thinking. On the best of the alone days, his mind would buzz with others' conversation for a few minutes before the words and thoughts of others leaked away. Then, he'd be alone with his thoughts awhile, sorting through his problems in school and wondering what traps lay in wait for him at Slytherin. He almost always eventually reached a quiet place, though, where all voices – even his own – finally left him alone. He would focus on where to put his foot next to avoid sliding down a leaf-littered slope, or using a vine or branch to leverage himself forward. He grew to know the paths of the wood, and even a few of its denizens. So far, he hadn't seen or heard from the centaurs, but a white fawn paused to lap delicately at a stream one day as he watched; and once, he saw what he swore was a full-grown unicorn and remembered a long-ago time when he and Potter had seen a dead one, side-by-side.

After breakfast but before classes, he would return to the Castle. The others would be filling the hallways with noise and chatter; feeling like a ghost, Draco would use the lesser-known paths to creep back to Slytherin to shower and change into his new-accustomed garb: neat and tidy shirt, tie (double-Windsor), pressed slacks, shoes shined to a fare-thee-well. He would grab his books and his homework and take the long way to his first class.

He was usually late, and was chided for it, but it was better than being accosted in the hallways or shoved off the edge of a swinging stair.

They were bound to get wise, someday. They hadn't, yet.

Today, however, was a day for wisdom, Draco thought on spotting the seventh-year Slytherins crowding his usual path of egress.

"Hey, look!" one exclaimed. "It's Draco Malfoy… what a coincidence. And here I thought we'd found a quiet little spot," said Elphias Taylor, a beefy seventh-year with large arms and a mean smirk.

"Looks like that's what Malfoy thought, too," said a second Slytherin – Jones, Draco thought, memorizing their names, their faces.

If they didn't manage to kill him, he  _would_ remember.

"I feel like Malfoy's gotten a bit less social of late, don't you, Jones?" Taylor wondered. "Seems he doesn't like our company anymore."

The assembled boys laughed, shoving at each other.

"Let me through," said Draco, not with any expectation of being obeyed, but out of the need to assert himself in some way. He let his wand slip into his palm.

"So unfriendly," said Smith. "But then the Malfoys always were a little stuck on themselves."

"Always were a bit big-headed," Taylor replied.

"Maybe his needs taken down a size," Jones suggested.

"Excuse me," said a new voice.

Draco looked up, wide-eyed, to see Ronald Weasley standing in the hallway, leaning into the boys' space.

They stared at him; Ron was wearing his best, most gormless expression, though, and was – even to a Slytherin –  _especially_  to a Slytherin – completely inscrutable.

"McGonagall wants him in Transfiguration," Ron announced, and turned to walk away.

Draco pressed after him, wand clenched in his palm, trembling… the hair at the back of his neck rose as he passed through the tight-knit cluster of boys… he tensed, awaiting the slam of a hex into his back…

But then he and Ron turned the corner and Draco let out the breath he was holding. Ron was hurrying forward again, though, already leaving Draco behind.

"Thanks," said Draco, belatedly.

Ron didn't turn. "It's none of my doing. McGonagall really did ask me to come looking."

It was the first interaction he'd had with Ron Weasley since those terrible moments at the Wizengamot, and now Ron was back to pretending they'd never spoken… that they had never known each other…

"Hey!" Draco shouted. And when Ron  _still_ didn't turn, " _Hey!_ "

But Ron didn't react until Draco reached out to grab his arm. Then, he whirled around to whip out of Draco's grip.

" _What?_ "

"They're after me, you know!" Draco shouted, at the end of his patience. "They're after me and you don't even  _care_ , do you?"

"You made your decision, Malfoy. I don't see how that's down to me." Ron's eyes were cold, and his lip curled; it was like he was a different person entirely when he spoke to Draco Malfoy, like Draco was some kind of lodestone that drew the worst in him to the surface…

And suddenly it was all too much to bear.

"You  _know!_ " Draco shouted. "You might not want to believe it anymore, but  _you know me_ , Ron – I'm your best friend, or at least I was!"

There was a long moment where Draco read that affable foolishness in Ron's features, the kind that meant he was about to pretend to be someone else entirely... and if Ron swore he didn't know what Draco was talking about, Draco thought he might hit him, or scream.

But then, the look of gormlessness drained away to be replaced by fury, and Ron took a step into Draco's space, eyes wild. " _Best friend?_ I only  _thought_  you were my friend because you  _lied_  to me! Every day! Every  _moment!_ " He blinked, rapidly. "You made a  _fool_  of me."

Draco had reached his wit's end and taken a few steps beyond it, into a country where he had absolutely nothing to lose. "I," he said, slowly, savouring each syllable. "I. Made a fool… out of  _you_." He pushed Ron in the shoulder. "You made a fool of  _me_! You don't get it, yet? They all hoped I'd turn you!"  _Shove._  "Teach you  _Imperio_ , show you Dark Magic, teach blood purity and rise in the ranks of the Ministry!"  _Shove_. "But I didn't, did I? I didn't change you.  _I_ changed."

"Well, good!" Ron shot back. "I always said you could use taking down a peg!"

 _Oh_ , Draco thought, blinking. Ron still thought it had all been a joke to him, Draco Malfoy was Ron's  _definition_  of a terrible person. "You knew from the moment I gave you your first clue at the Battle of Hogwarts! That's fast, even for you, right? So part of you had to have known –"

"Shut up," said Ron.

"I told you in a million different ways who I was. I bloody well  _introduced myself to you_ ; I asked you how you'd feel if I came from a different family, if I was in Slytherin. And you swore that wild horses couldn't drag you and me and Hermione apart. Well, I guess I know what your promises are worth."

"Promises made to liars and Slytherins don't count-"

"Let Blaise hear you saying that," said Draco.

Ron blanched and for a moment, Draco thought he saw of flash of recognition in the other boy's eyes.

But instead of softening Draco, it hardened him.  _Let_  Ron feel sorry – Draco wasn't the only one at fault, here. "Maybe," said Draco. "Maybe it was because I listened to you and Hermione –"

Ron scoffed, but Draco didn't let him interrupt.

"Maybe it was because I was  _worried_  for you, and maybe because I actually  _talked_  to you instead of giving orders, and maybe it was because you liked me  _better_ ," Draco spat. "And now you have to face it, that you're looking at Harry Potter and  _wishing_  he were me –"

Draco only realized he'd been shoved when he was looking up at Ron from the floor.

"Ha! Struck a nerve, did I?" Draco laughed meanly.

"No!" Ron shouted. "No, Malfoy, I wish that I'd never got to know you. And if I couldn't have that," he muttered.

"What?" Draco challenged. "You wish I'd just disappear?"

Ron's hands clenched and unclenched. For a long moment, he only stared. Then, "yes," he bit out. "I want things to go back to the way they were. I  _want_  you to leave me alone."

Draco reached up to rub at his collar, where it suddenly ached again, as though Ron had punched him there. "Oh." He felt as though he'd been thrown to the middle of the Lake in mid-winter. He felt as though the ground were falling out from underneath him. "Fine," he said. "Fine. Get out of my sight, then, so I can get started straightaway."


	23. Chapter 23

"Hey, are you coming?"

Draco looked up to see Potter of all people was approaching him and Luna where they sat by the Lake. It was a lovely day, and Draco planned on lying in Luna's lap and asking her to stroke his hair gently. She usually ended up telling him stories, and he could rely on the sweet cadence of her voice and the stroke of her fingers to lull him to sleep.

"Hullo, Harry," said Luna. "Would you care to sit down by us?" She patted the earth and smiled invitingly.

Harry stared at her for a moment, or maybe stared at them both; Draco and Luna seemed to have that effect on people. Then he shook his head as though to clear it. "No, sorry, Luna. Draco and I have to, uh…"

"Oh! Your get-togethers," Luna said. "The reintegration of the soul is a serious matter," she went on. "Best you both pay careful attention."

"I will," Draco agreed, and pecked her on the lips before rising. "Well, Potter? Shall we?"

Harry took off across the Hogwarts lawn swiftly at first, but when Draco refused to rush, hands thrust in his pockets, his sense of fair play forced him to slow, just as Draco had intended it would.

"No hurry, Potter; it's a beautiful day," Draco said.

"I s'pose," Potter agreed and unconsciously – Draco  _hoped_  – mirrored Draco, sticking his hands into his pockets. "Maybe we could just sit outside and talk," Potter suggested, and Draco looked away so Potter wouldn't register his surprise. So far, Harry had insisted they talk in the library, surrounded by other people. Potter was either relaxing a hair or planning to murder him in a more isolated spot.

"Sure," Draco said. "Lead the way."

"Why don't you?" said Potter. "You've been in the lead up to now."

"Ha," said Draco – still cautious, still unsure. Once he reached the shade of the Forbidden Forest he plunked down, and Potter sat beside him, eyeing him curiously. "Well, Potter? We haven't got all day."

Harry plucked some grass up and spun it between his fingers. Those long, slender fingers – Draco remembered when they used to be his.

"How'd you do it?" Potter said.

"Do what?"

Potter ripped up the grass between his fingers. "Me," he said. " _Be me_."

Draco shrugged. "It wasn't as though I had a choice in the matter."

"No. That's not what I'm saying," Potter growled. He raked both hands through his hair. "You just – stepped into my life and you  _changed_ it. Those weren't my choices, you know? I've been set down into a life that's different than the one I had before, and I can't – people keep expecting me to be able to do all these things I'm no good at," Potter finished, wrapping his arms about his legs.

"Werewolf reform," Draco supplied.

" _Politics_ ," said Harry, despairingly.

"You can still do that." And then Draco took a breath and took a chance. " _We_ can still do that."

Potter looked up at him, a puzzled frown marring his brow.

"Let me back in," Draco urged. "I was good at this – I  _am_ good at this. I can help you."

"You must've been good at it," Potter said dubiously. "The papers were saying I'm a shoo-in Minister for Magic someday, just because you got all those people together in the same room."

"I'll bet Scrimgeour flipped his lid," Draco observed.

" _Why._ "

Draco raised his brows. "He'd like to be Minster for life. You're going to have to tread lightly."

Potter frowned. "I mean, I get that he doesn't like me…"

Draco waved his hand. "He likes us fine."

Potter's smile had turned wry, with a side order of baffled. "What I want to know," he said, leaning forward – but his features were nervous, and his hands twitched at his sides – "is why we're friends with Blaise Zabini."

"Because he would walk on hot coals for Hermione and Ron," Draco returned promptly, and then huffed a laugh. "It's  _we_  and  _us_ , now, is it?" he said... though he said it low enough, under his breath enough, that Harry could choose to pretend he hadn't heard.

"From what I understand, I was sitting on your shoulder like Jiminy Cricket," said Potter dryly. "So I guess it was  _we_ and  _us_  all along; I just didn't know it."

"I have no idea what that means," said Draco, but he'd gotten the gist sure enough.

"Did you ever think of what it might be like if you'd just stayed?"

Draco swallowed, then parted his lips to speak, before he realized he had no idea what he was about to say.

"I'm asking if you  _thought_  about it, not calling you before the Wizengamot."

Draco stared at the other boy's familiar features. "Yes," he admitted. "I spent seven months building things and then I had to walk away and not look back. I feel like I left myself behind, sometimes.  _Both_  selves."

"I guess I know what you mean," Potter said at length. "I'm not quite myself, either. I can't be, with your line-by-line rewrites, can I?"

For a moment, the two boys were quiet. Potter looked like he was just enjoying the springtime sunshine, but Draco felt close enough to judge that he knew better, and chose to break the silence.

"You really should use the hair stuff I bought. You must know it sticks up like a hedgehog at the back."

Potter dropped his head into his curled arms and snorted, revealing said cowlicks to the world. "Why is this funny?" he asked. "This shouldn't be funny."

"Between werewolf reform and looking like I'm on  _his_  side followed by looking like I'm on  _yours_ , pretty much everyone thinks I'm a traitor. I don't figure I'm going to last much longer. So if I'm with you, I've got to laugh."

Harry scoffed. "You're not really going to  _die_ ," he said.

Draco huffed a laugh. "If you haven't noticed, Death Eaters are a determined bunch. I've just replaced you as Person they Hate Most in the World. What do you think of my chances?"

"I didn't, uh, think of that," said Harry.

"Seriously?" Draco returned, eyeing him.

"I didn't." He glanced at Draco. "Sorry. I should be used to anyone associated with me being in mortal peril. Can you ask your parents for help?"

"I love them," Draco said. "I mean, I love them, but I think they want to kill me. Can you imagine if Ron and Hermione suddenly wanted to kill you?"

"Ron and Hermione  _do_  suddenly want to kill you," said Harry, but pulled up short when he saw Draco's expression. "Sorry," he said. "I know they're your friends, too."

"And Ron told me he wished I would  _disappear_ ," Draco said.

Harry waved a hand. "Oh,  _Ron_ ," he said.

" _Oh, Ron_?" Draco echoed, incredulous.

"He's going to be like this. Remember fourth year?"

"I mean,  _generally_ …"

"Ron wouldn't talk to me for  _months_."

"Months?" Draco squalked, then frowned, recalling... "The Triwizard Tournament." Draco shook his head. "The difference is that you hadn't put your name in the Goblet," Draco said. " _You_ didn't do anything wrong. And also that he gave a damn about you."

Potter eyed him with great pity. "You'll see," he said. "Anyway, thanks," he added, stretching his arms over his head. "I think I've got what I needed to know."

"Have you?" said Draco.

"I have," said Potter. "I guess I need your help, and I guess you need mine."

"I guess I do," he replied, warily.

"So," said Potter. "Allies?" And he stuck out his hand.

Draco took it. "You're on, Potter." He stared at their entwined hands a moment longer than he ought to, then shook, and let go.

 

* * *

 

"So," said Potter.

Draco looked up from his study at a table in the library, blinking, to see Potter and his friends.

"I was thinking," said Potter, sliding into the seat across from him.

Draco didn't dare look up at the others, who hadn't seated themselves. He placed a marker in his book and closed it, giving Potter his full attention.

"No one will consider the Werewolf Reform bill now," Potter said. "They're saying that the number one priority is rooting out the last of the Death Eaters."

"Well, they would, wouldn't they? Lots easier to go after evildoers and look tough on crime than to work on these fiddly human rights issues," Draco returned, leaning his chin on his palm.

"Uh, Harry?" said Ron.

Potter looked up. "Aren't you going to sit down?" But he didn't wait for an answer, turning back to Draco before anyone could reply. "I was wondering: is there a way to force them to go back to the issue? Or should we aim for something else?"

" _Harry_ ," said Ron.

Harry looked up, and Draco forced himself to do so as well. Blaise looked puzzled and angry, Ron baffled – but Hermione's features were curious. As he watched, she pulled out a chair and sat beside Harry. When she caught Draco watching, her lips twitched, as though she had started to smile before thinking better of it.

"I just think... given that Malfoy was in my shoes, literally, for seven months," Harry said.

"Filthy trainers," Draco muttered to himself – he caught Granger's lip quirking again  _(aha!_ ) –

"And that he was helping you lot  _plan all this_ , that he might have some insight," Potter finished.

"You sure there isn't a bit of  _him_ left in you?" Ron demanded, brows raised.

Stung, Draco rolled his eyes. "Oh  _please_ , Ron," he muttered –

And so did Harry, at precisely the same time.

"Whoa," said Potter. "I mean –"

"That's not," said Draco, blinking.

"It's a coincidence," said Harry.

"I was under this one's influence for over half a year, I'm not to be held responsible for my actions," Draco protested.

"What, are you two thinking of taking it on the road?" said Hermione.

Potter chuckled uncomfortably and rubbed at the back of his neck.

"So, what?" Ron demanded. "We're okay with this all of a sudden?"

"We were okay with it for months," Hermione pointed out.

"I suspect," said Blaise, "that there are a lot of things I'm okay with solely because I don't know the full story."

"Well, now you do," Potter said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. "Malfoy ran the DA and he put wards up that might've saved everyone in the Gryffindor dorms. He fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, and you saw what he did in the Wizengamot. You hung around Malfoy for seven months and he looked after all of you." He raised his eyebrows. "Am I wrong?"

No one said anything. Draco didn't dare look up because he didn't want to see the expression on any of their faces. "That's enough, now, Potter. Merlin's sky and stars! You're making me sound like I ought to be canonized. Ron here would prefer me to be cannon fodder."

Draco heard a snort.

"And anyway, here," said Potter, and then Draco  _did_  have to look up. "Eventually someone managed to tell me you didn't buy this for yourself." Potter rummaged in his familiar rucksack and placed a brown paper package on the table between them.

Draco tore a small hole and peered through the paper to see a swatch of familiar, emerald-green dragonhide.

Draco blinked rapidly, licking his lips. Then he pushed the package away.

Hermione stood. "What is it?" she inquired, and peered beneath the bit of paper Draco had already torn away. "Oh," she said. She turned to Draco, expression speculative.

One by one, the others checked. Ron went milk-pale, and blinked at Draco, who shrugged. Blaise's brow furrowed.

"Ron?" said Harry.

Ron circled to Draco's side of the table… Draco's gaze followed him as he moved… but he only dragged the package back to Draco and then thumped into the chair beside him, staring straight ahead. To Draco's alarm, the other boy looked torn between fury and tears.

"Okay," Draco said, quietly. He unwrapped the package and shrugged the jacket over his shoulders. When he put his hands in the pockets, he found that Potter had dropped one of the coins from the DA inside.

Hermione's lips parted and Blaise suddenly looked rather like Ron.

"Do you know?" said Hermione. "I think I might've really missed you."

Draco cleared his throat. "And I," he said, but had to stop and clear it again. "Well. I suppose you can imagine. But for Luna, I… where is Luna?"

Harry cleared his own throat. "She kept herself out of it. Told us we had to be grown-ups and she couldn't play mum forever." He shrugged. "That may not be how she put it, but I'm pretty sure it's what she meant."

Draco ducked his head to laugh. "I see."

"So," said Potter.  _Gently_. "Werewolf reform, or are we joining in making the streets safer for all good British witches and wizards?"

"Well," Draco said. "Benefits and drawbacks to each, of course…"

 

* * *

 

"You know, I'm honoured," said Hermione once they all started packing up. It was near curfew by the time they were done; the moon hung high in the sky.

"Oh?" said Draco. The jacket swung about his waist as he put his things away, every shift of weight comfortingly familiar.

"The thing about my parents –" Hermione began.

Draco winced. "I'm really sorry. Believe it or not, when Ron challenged me on it, I still just thought I was being, uh,  _factual_."

"That's why I'm honoured," said Hermione. "Before extremists will even consider changing their views, they must get to know someone who helps them break through every stereotype. I guess for you that was me, and so..."

Draco stared.

"I've read all about it.  _We've_  read all about it, you know, for werewolf reform. And you recall they say how easy it is to relapse. So if you ever feel hateful again… you should remember who I am to you," she said, warm brown eyes fierce. "I can't promise I won't be angry if you say hateful things, but I do promise to listen if you ever feel uncertain."

"I must've done something really nice in a past life," Draco said, and gathered her to him.

Hermione stiffened a moment, but then she slowly wrapped her arms about his waist. He wasn't quite as tall as Potter, so it was easier for Hermione to hook her chin over his shoulder. She gave a daring squeeze and then shifted back, cheeks pink.

"Thank you, Hermione," he said, gravely.

 

* * *

 

"Hey!"

Draco didn't turn, didn't realize the familiar voice was addressing him, until a hand wrapped around his shoulder.

"Hey,  _Draco Malfoy!_ "

It was Ginny Weasley.

She looked nearly as familiar and as beloved as Ron himself, her smattering of freckles and wide brown eyes and pursed lips recognizable from a Quidditch field away, her clever fingers and broom callouses painted with echoes of Christmas garland-weaving.

"I hear you're somehow responsible for re-starting the DA," she said, arms folded.

Draco blinked. "I… yes?"

"Good on you," she replied, with a decisive nod. "Better than the rest of your family by a leap and a bound," she added with a grimace. And when Draco's lips parted to reply, she held up a hand. "Wait. That wasn't what I meant to say." She worried her lower lip. "You helped at the Battle and there's clearly more to you, and I just mean to say – thanks. That's all."

Draco stared at her. "Thank you, Ginny. That's… very big of you."

"Okay," she said. "See you on the next battlefield!" and waved on her way to her next class.

It put a spring in Draco's step that wasn't even dented by one of the seventh-year Slytherins lobbing a wadded up bit of parchment at him as he passed.

 

* * *

 

"Uh, erm, hullo," said another familiar voice right outside of Transfigurations.

Draco looked up to see Neville Longbottom staring at him. "Uh, me?" he sputtered.

Seamus and Dean were staring at the interaction with hanging jaws, but Ron nimbly slipped between Draco and Neville to enter the classroom without looking back. Draco tried not to feel like he'd been stabbed.

"Yes, er," said Neville, eloquently.

Draco waited.

"I heard that you had something to do with the Slytherins teaching us how to shake off the Imperius Curse," Neville said.

"Oh," said Draco, slowly. "I mean, I suppose I did, at that."

"Well, thank you," Neville said. "For sending them, I mean. It meant a lot to all of us that the Slytherins were on our side, first of all; but I guess you must know by now that it saved a lot of lives."

Draco's lip trembled before he managed to square his jaw. "I, uh,  _no_ , I hadn't actually thought of it that way. That's… thank you, Neville."

"And," Neville said staunchly. "It means a lot to me  _personally_ , being able to fight off one of the Unforgivables."

Draco blinked. "Oh," he said. " _Oh_. Well, uh, Neville, I haven't always been fair to you –"

"Oh, everyone teases  _me_ ," Neville dismissed. "Anyway, see you in class."

"Uh, bye then," said Draco, left staring into empty space. Or so he thought, until Seamus elbowed Dean.

"Don't ask us, mate," said Seamus.

"But your involvement in the war is all anyone can talk about all of a sudden," added Dean. "You're becoming, like, a legend."

"What?" said Draco. " _Why_?"

They shrugged in tandem and disappeared into the classroom, Draco a dazed step behind.

"Well now," said Professor McGonagall. "If it isn't our little celebrity…"

The entire class tittered, and when Draco finally found his seat, he looked up to see the Deputy Headmistress wink.

 

* * *

 

"Okay," said Pansy, yanking him aside, "is it or isn't it true that you helped Potter set the wards around the Gryffindor dormitories?"

"I mean," said Draco, slowly. "Yes?"

Pansy threw her hands down and issued a screech of exasperation. "Suddenly you're a hero, Draco Malfoy! Explain yourself!"

"I don't know how to explain myself," said Draco. "I'm not sure what's happening."

Pansy ticked items off on her fingers. "Urquhart is now telling anyone who'll listen that you 'sponsored' him to join the DA and he's urging us to check and see if you were responsible for our invitations as well. And so? Were you?"

Draco blinked. "Well, I mean, officially it was Hermione who suggested you, Pans, but I concurred."

She gawped at him. "You mean to tell me that –  _for real_  – you were on Potter's side all along?"

"I was, uh, Potter's right hand, you might say."

" _You. Hate. Potter_ ," she hissed. "Merlin's sake, Draco – no one can fake that… that  _breadth_ of loathing!"

"I  _did_  hate Potter," Draco agreed. "But, eventually… our interests aligned. And to hurt him was to hurt myself. So I just… did what was in both of our best interests."

"I'm going to strangle you," Pansy said levelly. "With  _my bare hands_ , do you understand? Unless you tell me straightaway what you're dancing around."

Draco eyed her. She seemed serious.

She seemed unhinged, especially about the eyes.

"Okay," he said. He drew the emerald green jacket out of his knapsack and threw it over his shoulders.

Weirdly, it did the trick, just as it had for Ron and Hermione and Blaise. Pansy's scowl twitched in disdain, but then her lips parted and her brows lifted. " _No way_ ," she whispered. "No  _flippin'_ way."

"Mother and Father's plan," Draco explained. "Exiled to Harry Potter's life for the better part of a school year."

Pansy lifted her gaze from the jacket to his face. "The War Speech," she said. "That was  _you_?"

Draco thought she'd pick on his relationships with the Gryffindors or a million other things before something he'd apparently  _said_. "What?"

Pansy clasped her hands at her back as though she were reciting before a classroom: " _The War is coming, and one way or another, all of us will have to fight. The content of our blood won't matter so much as it's being spilt. In the end, we all must do our best to protect ourselves, and our families. We should help each other do that._ I  _will help you do that. I will make sure you can survive, if it's within my power._ "

"What the  _fuck_ ," said Draco.

"The Slytherins examined the War Speech from every angle," Pansy reported, relaxing her stance. "Looking for falsehoods. Using Snape's Pensieve. But then it became a sort of pledge for us, a reminder why we were going. We said it together before every meeting." She squinted at him. " _You_  were the one who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me at the Battle of Hogwarts?"

Draco nodded.

"Oh my  _gosh_ , I could  _murder you_ right now," Pansy growled.

"Why does the  _jacket_  always convince everyone, anyway?" Draco muttered. "It's like it's magic or something."

Pansy's gaze darted up again. "You didn't check it for spells?  _You just put it on?_ "

"Well… Ron gave it to me," Draco protested.

"Oh, well if  _Ron_ gave it to you…"

"Seriously, Pans, spit it out."

"Well, we knew there were people who didn't like you," Pansy sniffed. "And you've got to admit: that jacket is posh."

"Yes, acknowledged that people hate Potter and this is a pretty jacket indeed. Your point?"

"My point is that we Charmed it so only Potter could wear it!" said Pansy. "Or not  _Potter_  per se, but the Head of the DA, you know. The person who taught us how to survive.  _That person_. You wear that jacket, and people see Potter  _with you_ when you wear that jacket, and there is going to be no question who you are, or who you were. At the very least, everyone will know you had as much a hand in the DA as Potter did. However did you get the thing?"

"Potter… gave it to me," said Draco, and suddenly the experiences of the day began to resolve, like the world coming into focus through Harry's spectacles.

"Did he? Well, maybe he's not quite as much a wanker as I've been led to believe," said Pansy, eyeing him repressively – as though to say she knew just who had led her to believe it.

"Uh, excuse me, Pans, I think I need to… go thank Potter."

"Mmm," said Pansy, folding her arms. But when he had turned to go, she called, "DA meeting is Wednesday next! You coming?"

He turned and smiled thinly, unable to answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter ended up quite long, so I ended up splitting it in half. That means one more chapter and then an epilogue. Can't wait to show you guys the rest!


	24. Chapter 24

"Oi, Potter. Potter!"

Harry turned and, after a flash of confusion – as though he couldn't quite recall fast enough why Draco Malfoy should be calling for him – a wry smile dawned across his face.

It looked right, there.

"You  _Slytherin_ ," said Draco. They were attracting stares; students parted around them like a river parting around a raised bed. But for once, Potter didn't appear discombobulated by the attention. Instead, he let them all eye him worriedly, whispers blossoming on either side of them as people passed, that smug smile still plastered across his face.

"From you, I'll take that as a compliment."

"The jacket," said Draco, folding his arms, leather shifting against leather. "The  _rumours_."

"Oh, those aren't  _all_  my doing," Potter said. "Luna's spreading some that you've found the Great Rimplehorned Snorkack." He leaned forward, rocking on the balls of his feet. "Very rare," he confided. "You'll be famous. Besides," he added, "rumours mean lies, don't they? Everything  _I'm_ saying is true." He frowned. "Well, the Great Rimplehorned Snorckack aside…"

"I don't need help with my  _PR problem_ ," Draco began.

"You told me your PR problem was about to get you killed," Potter pointed out.

"I," said Draco, subdued. "… I suppose I did."

"Listen," Harry said with a sigh. "You know politics. Do you know what I know?"

"How to take a bloke from zero to homicidal in fifteen seconds or less?"

"Besides that," said Potter.

"C'mon, Potter. I'm on tenterhooks. Tell me what  _you know_."

"I know being famous."

"You hate being famous," Draco returned.

"It's weird that you know that," said Potter. "But regardless. I'm good at it." He squinched his nose. "You might say I've got a talent. I could eat bran for breakfast and the next morning  _the Prophet_  would speculate I'd changed my diet because I was dying of some dread disease. Eventually, I learned what makes a story sensational, what makes people want to repeat it again and again. And  _voila_ ," he added, throwing his arms wide and slapping some poor second-year in the face. "Oops! Sorry. Sorry," he said, and Draco tried to hustle him out of the flow of students.

"Omigosh, Draco!" came a familiar voice just before they managed to escape the throng. Draco turned to see Parvati and Lavender holding hands and staring at him. "Did you save the Minister's  _life_?"

"Then again," said Potter, "they do tend to take on a life of their own once you release them into the wild…"

"Uh,  _no_ ," said Draco.

"But you were at the Ministry when it was attacked, right?" Lavender squeaked.

"Yes, along with a great many other people," Draco said.

"But you and the Minister fought side by side?" pressed Parvati.

Draco looked at Harry, then sighed, turning to face the girls. "I mean, yes, we did…"

"Like a hero out of a story!" Lavender swanned, and disappeared.

"Wow, they're more interested in the story itself than in me, personally," Draco supplied.

"It's the price we pay for fame," Potter intoned, then elbowed him.

Draco knew he should say something cutting, even something that was  _funny_  while it was cutting. But all he could do was stare.

"Did I break you?" Potter said; then, face falling, he added, "did I do wrong?"

"No," Draco said, swiftly. "But, Potter. In a day, you've gotten me what I've wanted for most of my life. Just when I finally couldn't care less. You marvellous idiot."

Potter smiled uncertainly, and Draco reached out and ruffled his hair.

Potter pinked, reaching up to bat Draco's hand away.

"Trust me," said Draco peering upwards. "It's an improvement."

 

* * *

 

By late that evening, Draco had been clapped on the back so often he was beginning to develop a flinch, but he was still waiting to hear from one person. So it was with a full heart that he accepted a note from a Slytherin firstie, and it was only when he opened it that the smile dropped off his face and his blood ran cold.

He considered ignoring the missive. After all, he was under no obligations to reply. But then he realized that he might be looking over his shoulder the rest of his life if he did not. He paused when he realized he had another option.

He withdrew the coin from his jacket pocket and activated it.

 

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes later, he strode up to the Lake to meet his mother.

Narcissa Malfoy was dressed in a black cloak, a black hat with lace pulled down over her powder-blue eyes. "Darling," she said.

"Mother," he said.

"I'm so glad to see you well," she replied, folding her hands.

"Are you?"

Her lips pursed in a moue of disapproval. "What a thing to ask your mother, Draco!"

"Well, and what a year it's been," Draco returned.

"I see. Well." She folded and unfolded her hands. "Of  _course_  I'm pleased you've made it through. I always have only your best interests at heart."

Draco narrowed his gaze. He recalled Narcissa disclaiming him, saying he was a  _thing_  and not a person. Sure, he had received  _some_  instruction from his father, later, and his mother's letters and books had helped him produce the Stone, but… the idea his parents believed he was a tool to be used or discarded hung between them like a  _Morsmordre_.

"And it's because I wish you the best that I have come tonight," she went on. "There are those who say the fate of the Wizarding World rests squarely on your shoulders."

"Mother," Draco said. "That… isn't funny."

"It isn't meant to be," Narcissa replied with a slow, confident smile. "You fought side-by-side with the  _Minister_ , Draco – as yourself! You helped craft legislation! And I don't know how you did it, but Potter has made  _certain_  everyone knows you're a hero of the Light." She paused to smile at him, tilting her head fondly. "And this way, you can  _stay a Malfoy_ , and accomplish nearly all our goals! Rise along with Potter as his name rises! We may salvage this, yet..."

Her expression soured. "Just yesterday, the Weasleys nodded at me in Diagon Alley and said that it was a fine thing our children were finally getting on, so you're fooling even the worst of the blood traitors," she muttered, then shook her head, bright smile making a reappearance. "But enough of that, darling. How  _are_  you? This must've all been so terribly trying."

"I'm," said Draco. "I'm. Why are you here, Mother?"

Her compassionate moue again made way for bright cheer. "To give you a gift, Draco! To help solidify your friendship to Potter," Narcissa said, withdrawing a very large, very ugly vase from the collapsible dimension bag on her arm and setting it down on the ground beside her.

"Uh," said Draco, staring at its hideousness.

"Come now, darling," she said. "Put it all together, there's a clever boy. Why did I help you with the Stone?"

"You said it could be used in an emergency, if I had to escape Potter's body in the fray," Draco supplied.

She raised her golden brows.

"Or else you intended me to use it against the Dark Lord all along," Draco said, slowly.

"Mmm," said Narcissa.

"Or else you supposed you could always claim that whatever I decided was your intention all along..."

Her eyes narrowed. "Well," she said. "You are growing up. But of course I did anticipate this eventuality, amongst others. One can only live in another's shadow for so long before a bit of it starts to… bleed through. I thought you might develop some sympathy for Potter and his friends… you were always such a sensitive boy."

"Right," said Draco, recalling a childhood filled with kicked House Elves and tantrums for the best child-sized brooms and spellcrafting toys.

"So I thought someday you might want the rest of Potter's soul," she went on idly, examining her nails.

Draco's gaze darted to the hideous vase.

"Did you know he can't survive indefinitely with so little of it intact?" Narcissa went on. "He's probably already started to feel a little weak, a little thinned out at the edges, and no idea why; poor dove."

"Okay," said Draco, slowly. "I still have the Stone, as I'm sure you knew I wouldn't throw away an object of such power. And that…  _thing_ … has the rest of Potter's soul? You're right, it's a great boon. I'm sure he'll ask how you came by it, but we could easily say you stole it from the Death Eaters. It sounds better than thinking that far ahead for ransom, Mother, you know it does. So who actually committed murder to create the Horcrux then? Who shall we say you took it from?"

"Well, I did," said Narcissa. "Both times."

Draco swallowed. "Both… times? Is Potter's soul split more than once?"

Narcissa frowned. "Darling, no. I mean you and Potter both! How do you suppose I engineered two souls to split without two deaths?"

It was as though Narcissa's very words had been percussive, had shaken the air and the water and the earth below Draco's feet.

"Oh, don't make such a face," said Narcissa. "You're so  _dramatic_ , darling…"

"The Killing Curse," Draco said through numbed lips. "You have to  _mean_ it."

"Well, and of course I  _meant it_ , I meant to save you," Narcissa said. "I meant to save us  _all_."

Draco looked up and swallowed reflexively again. "Yes. Yes, of course. I understand," he said. "Hand me the vase, then, Mother, and we're fully in Potter's good graces."

"Well," said Narcissa with a deliberate pause. "I'm not sure I ought to, now…"

" _Mother_ …"

"Not without a guarantee," Narcissa said, drawing herself up to her full height. "Shall we say an Unbreakable Vow?"

Draco spoke through clenched teeth. "What is it you wish me to Vow?"

"Not you, dear; your friend Mister Potter, in the shrubbery."

There was a bit of cursing, and Potter emerged, pulling his Invisibility Cloak free. He looked pale in Draco's wandlight, ghostly.

"I survived seven whole months without feeling drawn and thin," Draco said immediately.

"You must not recall your doppelganger's misadventures very well," Narcissa replied, sharply. "You lost weight, you didn't sleep. That wasn't worry, Darling… or not only worry. What I told you about being a portrait, something that looked like my son but  _wasn't_ … that wasn't something I made up. It just wasn't the immediate result. Given time, that would have been the way of it."

Potter looked terrified, and Draco, not knowing anything else he could do, moved to stand beside him.

"You have two choices, Mister Potter," said Narcissa. "The first is this…

"You will refuse me. Your energy will dwindle and fade… but it will be slow. I'll give it a year, maybe two if you're a fighter. But eventually, you'll be listless as an Inferi. All the while, you'll train Draco to take your place. It was his work that made all those people at the Wizengamot listen, wasn't it? He's skilled and clever and already in with all your little friends: your natural successor. When you retreat to your room for the last time, a husk with few thoughts left to call your own, he'll be out there making a name for himself… a tragic figure whose best friend fell victim to a terrible curse…

"Or," she said, smiling. "Or.

"You will grant my request. You will swear now to never speak ill of  _any_ Malfoy so long as you live. You will swear to help my son achieve greatness. And I will return your soul to you, Mister Potter," she said, opening her arms. "And everybody's happy."

"Except you've lost your bargaining chip," Potter said; and he really  _was_ good at this, because while Draco had been spellbound by his mother's speech, the vase had disappeared. "So how about what's behind Door Number Three? You go to Azkaban for attempted murder."

"Good luck proving any of it," said Narcissa, "as I see no corpses."

"I mean, there is the confession just now," Potter said coldly. "Heard by – I assure you, Mrs Malfoy – quite a number of people." He narrowed his eyes. "Your own son. I think you have a shot at an insanity defence."

Narcissa dropped to her knees. " _Do_  have mercy!" she exclaimed. "I only wanted to see my son survive the year! I would've done anything!" And she buried her face in her hands and went on about the evil man in her home, destroying her hope, her will to live, her understanding of the line between right and wrong.

But all Draco could see were Narcissa's cold eyes as she said,  _it's no one._   _Nothing_. And it began to come together in his head, coalescing like the memory of a bad dream: all Narcissa's actions laid out in their proper order.

What she'd been willing to do to him for her ambition. How she must've  _planned._

"Yes," Potter agreed, staring at Narcissa. "When the Aurors come, try it again, just like that.  _Incarcerus._ "

The rest of the DA emerged from the aether… Draco supposed that they'd been there all along, using Disillusionment charms… he was able to see Ron emerge from behind Narcissa just in time to watch him move his wand hand, and the vase appeared at her feet. It hadn't gone anywhere… they had just Disillusioned the thing…  _no_ , Draco realized, they'd  _draped Harry's cloak over it_ …

Ron slung an arm around his shoulder.

Draco flinched.

"C'mon, mate, let's get you someplace quiet," he said, and steered Draco away.

 

* * *

 

Draco could feel Ron's hand gripping his shoulder and the spongy earth beneath his feet, but his vision tilted and every dozen steps or so, he felt as though he had been dropped from a great height; his head spun. It was only when Ron lowered him to sit that he realized they were by the entry gates that led to Hogwarts: not precisely off the grounds, and within sight of the Lake... looking back, Draco could see pinpricks of light dancing about, but nothing more... they were too far away to hear conversation, even with the way that sound tended to carry over the Lake. Draco realized he'd been set down on a boulder half-in, half-out of the earth when he reached out for handholds and met the unmistakable rasp of stone against his fingertips in the dark. "Well?" said Draco, looking up into Ron's blurry, frowning face. "I have nothing, now. I have no one. Are you happy?"

"What?" said Ron.

"I turned from the Dark," Draco said. "I fought the Death Eaters. I fought the Dark Lord, himself. And now my family… I've turned my back on everything that meant  _anything_  to me!" Trembling, he realized he'd begun shouting, and lowered his voice again, not out of courtesy but because he would be damned if he allowed Ron Weasley to see him break. "And I did because of you. You know that, right? Because of you and Hermione." Draco was trembling, but he forced himself to stand, throwing his hands in the air. "Is it not  _enough_  for you?"

"It's," said Ron, tightly. He shook his head. "You shouldn't've had to've done any of this. Your mother."

Draco blinked at Ron's face close-up. Distantly, he could hear his own breath shaking its way out of him. "She," he said, breath hitching. "She. She  _killed_  me. She  _killed_ me. She… I could imagine she was playing the odds, she thought – better chance of… but it was my  _mother_ , you understand?" Draco forgot himself and moaned, low and heartbroken, burying his head in his hands. "My  _mum_."

"I know," Ron said, miserably. "I know it was. I'm so sorry."

"Your mum and dad would never," Draco said, looking up blankly. Then he braced himself and said the words that had been rattling inside his head like a pinball, gaining momentum since the Lake. "Why am I  _disposable_?"

Ron looked down, swallowed. " _You're not_ ," he said. "They were  _wrong_  to do this to you. You don't deserve…"

Draco laughed weakly.

"You don't."

"There are those who'd disagree."

"Merlin's  _sky and bloody stars_ ," Ron swore. "Sit down before you tip over, Malfoy, you're shaking like a leaf and you're white in the face."

Draco thumped back to the boulder and Ron sat by him; the silence built as the adrenaline shook out of them both.

"I can't keep it in my head one moment to the next, you know," Ron said, suddenly. "That  _you_ were the one who was at Christmas. You kept Dad busy talking about how  _engines_  work." He frowned, shaking his head. "And the thing is, I  _know_  you. The way you laugh. Your try-hard  _plummy_ accent –"

"Hey," protested Draco.

"And I miss you," said Ron. "And I think – I was perfectly right to be unhappy with you, but – I'm," he said, then rushed forward, " _stillsorryIwishedyou'ddisappear_."

"That sounded like a pulled tooth feels," Draco said.

"Well," said Ron. "Harry and I just slap one another on the back or punch each other in the arm."

"Clearly," said Draco.

"But you and I talk," Ron said, tentative.

"Yes," said Draco. He paused. "I liked the present tense there."

"Me too," said Ron, and there was another moment of quietude. "I haven't put it all together, yet. Harry woke me and Hermione in the middle of the night in September all bothered about the wards – was that already you?"

"Well-spotted. Day two," said Draco, the practicalities and factual questions settling the vibrations of his insides.

"Day…  _two_?" said Ron, staring. "But you were…"

Draco flushed under his stare. "I was… what?"

Ron eyed him. "You thought we were in danger. Beside yourself. You let me  _hug you_. You let  _Hermione_  hug you."

"Well, it wasn't like I had a choice," Draco said. "I had a sliver of Potter's soul lodged next to mine. He was frantic, not me."

"Is that the only reason you're friends with me?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Well, obviously not," he said, throwing his arms wide, "as I'm palimpsest-free."

"As you're  _what-_ free?" Ron demanded, but then there was a distant sound and he was on his feet, drawing his wand and easing in front of Draco in a move no one had ever engaged in on Draco's behalf before. He blinked a few times to be sure it was real.

When Luna emerged from the black, Hermione and Blaise only a few steps behind her, Ron pocketed the wand, accepting Hermione's embrace and, after a moment and an anxious glance Draco's way, he let Blaise squeeze him, too.

Then Luna was flying to Draco, and warm hands were closing over his shoulders, peering all around at his face and finally reaching out to tilit his chin this way and that. "Are you all right?" she demanded. "You  _are_  all right, aren't you?"

Draco huffed a breath and nodded, head ducked, as Luna tucked herself against his side.

"Of course he's not," Hermione mumbled. "I'm ever so sorry, Harry."

Draco looked up sharply.

"Oh," said Hermione, wide-eyed. "Oh,  _no_  – I mean…"

"It's not that you're wrong," Draco said. "Not because you mistook me for Harry – but that you remembered I'm your friend," he said, and Hermione, scanning his features with anxious eyes, suddenly threw herself in his arms and squeezed. He looked over her shoulder to see Blaise looking at them with a sort of warm bafflement, and nodded.

Blaise looked startled, and then…

His features relaxed; he let Draco see his worry and his love for Hermione, his hopeless devotion, and he shrugged.

 _Me, too, Blaise_ , Draco thought when Ron rested his head on Draco's shoulder and wrapped one gangling arm around the warm huddle of Luna and Hermione and Draco, himself.  _Me, too._


	25. Epilogue

"Well, that's the last of it," Scrimgeour said. "If I may say, lad, you've been very brave in all this."

"Thanks," said Draco, adjusting the cuffs of his finest business robes.

"Tough luck," the Minister said.

"It's not so bad," said Draco, dipping the quill into the fine black ink on Scrimgeour's desk and signing the bottom of the long, curled parchment with a flourish. "There you are," he said. "New wing at Mungo's and orphanage both."

"A whole new wing for cursed maladies… I hope you've managed to keep something for yourself."

Draco's lip quirked. "Why, Minister; one would almost think that Wizarding Britain doesn't even want my filthy blood money."

Scrimgeour stared a moment, then huffed a laugh. "Very brave," he repeated, stroking his short beard. "Well."

"Well," said Draco, replacing the quill and sketching a bow.

"Mister Malfoy?"

Draco still flinched a little bit when he heard the name. He couldn't seem to help it.

"Have you ever given a thought to what you might do after you graduate?"

He turned at the door, hand along the frame: steadying himself. "I was pretty sure I'd be fertilizer, sir."

Scrimgeour tilted his head to the side. "I'd say you have a future in politics, especially if you stick by the Potter boy. I've never seen anyone's reputation shift so fast as yours has. However did you manage?"

"A matter of putting myself in Potter's shoes," Draco said. "If you'll excuse me, Minister."

Potter was waiting for him outside, hands shoved into his pockets, face lightly glamoured. Anyone who knew him well wouldn't be fooled, but it kept people from poking each other and pointing as he passed. He drew up swiftly when Draco emerged. "He imply you could run for Minister someday, with the right connections?" Potter inquired.

Draco looked up in surprise.

"He wants you under his thumb," Potter commented.

"I know," Draco said. "But I also kind of like him."

"That's how they get you," Potter said, pushing the button for the lift.

"Likeability," said Draco, solemnly.

"Yes," said Potter. He glanced at Draco out of the corner of his eye, lopsided grin overtaking his face. His skin was sun-dark again, and his eyes sparkled with merriment. "I might've heard a rumour you grow rather fierce about the people you like."

"You of all people should know not to fall prey to rumourmongers," Draco said, primly.

"That's me told."

The doors opened and the two climbed onto the lift, next to an ancient witch in medirobes who barely reached Draco's shoulder and a burly Unspeakable twice her size; they fell silent for fear of getting the full-on  _Mister-Harry-Potter-_ sir! experience.

"You going to come with me?"

"You came with me," Draco replied shortly. "Am I so faithless?"

"I'd never say so."

"An interesting reply," Draco mused, arching a brow.

Potter rolled his eyes. "Merlin. You know what I meant."

"Mmm."

They exited ahead of the small Mediwitch and finally found the office of Head Auror, with its gleaming gold letters on the door.

Potter lifted his wand and took a breath. He cancelled the glamour; to Draco's eye, very little shifted but it seemed that Harry's features grew inescapably familiar… it was still a bit like watching a mirror come to life.

"What're you staring at?" Potter demanded. Then, worried: "have I got something gross on my face?"

"I'm not even going to accept that opening, Potter, it's too easy. Are you trying to butter me up or something?"

Harry scoffed, then straightened; two women were elbowing one another and pointing at them.

"Plebians," Draco sniffed, and took Potter's arm. "Come along, Potter, before the vultures descend."

"Come in with me," Potter said, looking suddenly anxious.

"Potter –"

"Please," Harry said. "Look, I know I shouldn't be nervous, but I am. You'd be doing me a favour."

"Well, you know how much I enjoy –"

"Just  _come on_ ," Potter growled, grabbing his arm and dragging him forward. Draco stumbled through the door and they faced Kingsley Shacklebolt, a tall, grim, dark-skinned man with a shaved head. "Kingsley," Potter said, because of course Harry addressed the Head Auror by his given name.

"Harry," said Kingsley. "I thought I'd be seeing you sooner rather than later. And… Mister Malfoy. What an unexpected visit."

"Uh," said Draco.

"Malfoy and I would like to sign up for the Academy," Potter said.

Draco turned to stare.

"Mister Malfoy will have a hard time of it," Kingsley said bluntly. "You know that he will, Harry, and I'm not sure that –"

"Both of us played an instrumental role in the Defense Association. Malfoy taught it with very little input from me, for most of this past school year." Potter withdrew a folder from his knapsack and placed it on Kingsley's desk. "These are the Defense spells I would count on anyone in our group knowing."

Kingsley reached for the folder with economical, deliberate movement, flipping it open. Draco watched his eyebrows climb for a flash of an instant before he could school his expression. "Well," he said.

"And we'd like to keep our group together," said Potter.

Kingsley shook his head. "You have to know how that would look. Potter's Army, right underneath our noses? They wouldn't like it."

"You're 'they', sir," Potter pointed out. "Who's going to complain to you… the Minister?"

"Your co-workers," Kingsley said. "You should integrate into our pre-existing structure, Potter, not waltz in as some conquering hero and his coterie."

Potter smiled. "But, Kingsley. I am a conquering hero. And so is Draco Malfoy."

Kingsley blinked, once.

"I'm not saying I'll be in charge of anything. Just ensure that we stick together, that's all. We already know how to work as a team, and it's not smart to put all that time and effort to waste. Think about how cohesive we'll already be – what a useful fighting unit – from day one."

"And you'll protect your Mister Malfoy from whatever nasty Aurors figure they owe his family a little payback," Kingsley said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"And I'll protect my Mister Malfoy, yes," Potter replied, and Draco coughed.

"Well," said Kingsley. "All right. Now, you understand we have partners within the Auror corps –"

"That'll have to be me or Ron Weasley," Harry returned.

" _And that it's entirely up to the Head Auror to pair you_ ," Kingsley said firmly, but the edge of his lip was quirking. "And when we have fighting units, that's still only six. How many in your little group?"

"There were about twenty in our year. Though I'm sure they're not all going for the Auror program," Potter replied.

"So we'll have to divide everyone up carefully, eh? Come to my office the week before training starts and we'll sort everyone out," Kingsley said. "Now, is that  _it_ , Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy? Or did you have any advice on how to get Robins to do her paperwork in triplicate like she's  _supposed to_?"

"No, sir," said Draco, swiftly. "Thank you, sir."

"Well! You do speak after all," said Kingsley. "Now, get out of my sight."

When the door closed, Draco hurried over to the lift and pressed the button with trembling fingers. Harry had forgotten to renew the glamourie, so there were increased titters and side-eyes until they slipped into the empty lift.

"Merlin, Potter," Draco cursed the moment the doors closed behind them. "Did you even think to  _ask_  me what I wanted to do with the rest of my life?"

Harry  _laughed_ , the bastard. "You're wearing that jacket in the dead of summer. I'm not  _blind_."

Draco turned bright red. "And anyway, what were you  _thinking,_ demanding all of that like you were owed?"

"Being famous. I told you," Harry replied.

Draco turned to face him.

"I'll be the next Head Auror, and you'll be the next Minister for Magic," Harry Potter said intently. "Just think: the Hero of the Wizarding World and the Reformed Death Eater's Son the guiding light of a new age. You said we could do politics. This is me taking you up on your offer."

Draco looked him up and down. "You sure there isn't a bit of  _me_ left in you?"

"Ha bloody ha," Potter said, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Look, the way I figure it, I'm famous, you're infamous, and there's not much we can do about it short of moving to the woods and living our lives as a pair of hermits. If people are going to insist I'm important, I'm going to bloody well make sure I do some good in this world. Don't you feel the same?"

Harry's features were more solemn than the flippant tone of his voice suggested, and he worried a bit on his lower lip as he awaited Draco's answer.

Draco gave a little hitch of his shoulder. "I suppose I do, at that."

"Well, then," said Harry, suddenly looking a great deal more at ease. The lift  _tinged_  and they stepped out of the doors into the sunlit Ministry entrance together. "Then I think we can make it happen. I'm  _the_  Harry Potter, after all… And so were you."

 

* * *

 

 

_FIN_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for joining me on this journey. Like it, awesome! Love it, review! Adore it, rec it! And join me next time for A Game of Chess, my first story primarily from Ronald Weasley's point of view.  
> 
> Keep reading and keep writing, everyone!


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